The Piper
by Formerly known as J
Summary: Brilliant and sensitive, Walter Blythe had always preferred poetry and reading to violence and war. Until one day, The Piper's inexorable song called for him so loudly he could no longer ignore it. Set during Rilla of Ingleside, this story follows Walter as he goes to France to fight in World War I. Can he find there is still beauty and love left in a world bereft of hope?
1. Farewell to Ingleside

_A/N: I owe a debt of gratitude to LMM for her characters. She owns them all. Even the ones I've invented, I would gladly give to her in appreciation._

 _I must also give a huge shout out to the superlative katherine-with-a-k, whose Walter in 'Call to Arms' inspired this version of Walter every bit as much as the original. If you haven't read her wonderful story already, let me recommend that you do._

* * *

Saying goodbye to Mother had been the hardest. For I knew then, and I suspected she knew too, deep in her mother's heart, that it would be the last time I would see her in this life.

As we stood on the platform of Glen St Mary train station, I hugged Mother as closely to me as I could. I was trying to console her, to communicate my love for her as best I could, as I wrapped my arms around her slight frame, and my family said their goodbyes to me. That was the day I left behind my seemingly enchanted, former life at Ingleside.

That was the day I relinquished the last vestiges of that bright, beautiful, peaceful and carefree life I'd lived with my family and friends on Prince Edward Island to engage in a distant war my King and country had told me I must fight.

I, Walter Blythe, of the dazzling literary promise and brilliant, scholarly future, was finally obeying the inexorable call of the Piper, after resisting it for so long.

Mother was heartbroken I was going, so I couldn't tell her it was a relief to finally succumb to the Piper's persistent refrain. At last I was putting an end to my tortured days spent in the white heat of my own indecision and the shadow of others' judgement. Not from my family; there was never any blame or criticism from them, although I had felt keenly how my shame must reflect on them.

I had borne both the covert and, more frequently, the open censure of strangers and friends alike. From those too cowardly to reveal their identity, who sent me anonymous white feathers as a symbol of their condemnation, to those who ostentatiously crossed the street if they saw me walking towards them. Even worse than the disapproval were the pitying but well-meaning looks from those at church or my professors at Redmond, accompanied by supportive enquiries about my delicate health. So, it had felt liberating, almost exhilarating, to be free of the burden of my guilt at last.

This was not the same stoic farewell as when my fearless older brother, Jem, had left for the war. Even though my family had been upset then, there had still been more than a little hope that Jem might not be away for longer than a few months. But the war had dragged on for too long now, and everyone knew too well that it was showing no signs of ending anytime soon, for them to pretend otherwise with me.

I drew back a little to look into my mother's huge eyes, usually such a soft grey colour, but which were in that moment a vivid sage green, overflowing with feeling, and glistening with unshed tears. I noticed Mother was avoiding looking at my uniform as she gazed earnestly into my eyes, and I could feel her fingers digging into my upper arm, clinging tightly to the fabric on my sleeve.

Even as I looked down at Mother's dear face, I could hear the Piper's melody so clearly. The echo of pipes had been steadily growing louder in my ears in the weeks prior to my departure, as if the Piper was expressing his gleeful approval of my decision; and he was piping more insistently than ever for me that day. Just as he had been relentlessly whispering for me ever since the day long ago, when we were children, and I first saw him coming over the hill in Rainbow Valley.

The realisation struck me, as I stood with Mother on the platform, that every step I took from that moment on was a step closer to the day I would finally meet the Piper. It had always been inevitable. But I couldn't say that to her.

"Goodbye, Mother," I smiled down at her tenderly, memorising every beloved line of her face.

"Walter, darling," Mother said to me softly, her hand on my cheek and her lips trembling as she looked so tenderly into my eyes. "Please stay safe and come back to us," she murmured.

I knew I couldn't promise her that. So I said, "I love you," as I looked into her distraught eyes.

Then her arms were around me again, hugging me to her as if she never wanted to let me go. I can still feel all of the limitless, warm mother-love emanating from her heart to mine as her love wrapped me in a protective embrace that day.

I recalled how tightly Mother had gripped my hand all the way in to the station, as though she might prevent me from leaving if she held on firmly enough. I could see she was trying to be so brave for me, and I wanted to tell her she didn't have to be.

I wanted so much to reassure her, to explain to her that it was because I love her that I must go. I tried once more.

"Please don't cry, Mother," I whispered to her as I kissed her cheek and looked down at her pale, stricken face. "It's done now, and everything is going according to God's plan, just as it always does."

The look on Mother's face told me she didn't agree. But I knew it was true.

For some reason, this was God's new plan for all of us, and I had finally accepted it. I knew I must walk into that future fearlessly, just as Jem and Jerry and all those other boys from the Island and all over the world already had. My previous, precious old world - so full of beauty and poetry, laughter and love, with languid, untroubled days spent joyfully together at Ingleside and in Rainbow Valley – that life was no more.

This was the Piper's world now, and we were all dancing to his tune. Moreover, it seemed that God and the Piper had decided they wanted us to fight our way out of it, if we could.

I had known this from the moment I heard that England had declared war on Germany when we were at that lighthouse dance in August last year. I knew the world I loved was finished that night.

That other life I'd known, with my very different, oh, so golden future that I'd anticipated so eagerly; that life was gone forever now. I'd felt that dream shattering around me like an explosion when I heard the news. It struck me like a blow to the stomach, and left me just as breathless.

Even that night we received the news, I was already certain that I could not continue on in a world such as this. Not because I didn't want to live, because I truly did, so very much. But I knew that I would no longer be me, that now I _could_ no longer be the Walter Cuthbert Blythe I had been in that old world. He of the rich promise, luminescent soul and blossoming literary possibilities did not exist anymore. That Walter Blythe had vanished in an instant, suddenly transforming into whatever _this_ was that I'd become. Even I didn't recognise myself anymore.

And yet, I still felt compelled to do whatever I could for those that I loved, so that they could continue on and grow old and laugh again, because I knew that they all wanted to do that. Just as I already knew with unwavering certainty, as I stood on that familiar platform at Glen St Mary, that old was not something I would ever be. I was already marching to the Piper's chorus, and it was always clear what the Piper required of me.

So I had to leave. The Piper had left me with no choice. I was no longer free to pursue my dreams of poetry and prose, of beauty and splendour. I yearned to live in that other lovely world, but not this new, brutal one; never this one.

I knew all this as I moved to face my father, aware of Mother's fingers still clutching tightly to my forearm.

I could see Dad's love for me shining all over him, too, just as strong as Mother's love. He who is always so upright, so steadfast, so sure, was looking at me with his eyes squinted in anguish, his strong jaw clenched and his face stiff with emotion.

He will look after Mother, and the rest of the family, just like he always has done. He will make sure that the family will continue on together because his love for them burns so brightly. I could see the tears in Dad's eyes, too.

I felt my love for my father welling up from deep in my chest when I saw the pained look on his face that day, his eyes glittering fiercely with love for me. He reached out and placed his hand on my shoulder.

"Walter, son, I'm so proud of you. Please know that..." He wanted to say more, but I interrupted him.

"I know, Dad. I know," I said as he pulled me to him and I hugged him tightly, too. I could feel his whole body shaking with feeling as he clapped me on the back. "Thank you, Dad."

We'd already told each other everything we needed to say on the night I informed him and Mother that I was going to the war. He and I had sat together on the front steps at Ingleside on that balmy summer evening and talked for hours.

Once Mother realised I wasn't going to change my mind, she turned and fled upstairs to their bedroom, too distressed to talk to me about it any further. Dad had followed immediately, gesturing to me that he'd be back as he dashed up the stairs after her.

Later, when Dad came back downstairs, I'd told him why I must go, hoping that perhaps he could explain it to mother for me, and persuade her to see things differently.

"She understands, Walter," he said. "She just needs some time to adjust to the idea. This war asks a lot of the world's mothers."

"And fathers, too," I replied.

He nodded pensively.

After a pause, he said, "I want you to know how proud of you I have always been, Walter, and of the man you've become." He spoke quietly; his feet were wide apart on the step below him, his elbows on his thighs and his hands clasped together between his knees as he leaned forward with his head turned to look directly into my eyes. "I know your mother was the first one you always rejoiced with at your literary successes at Redmond, and I know your writing gifts came from her, but…"

" _You_ were the Cooper Prize winner," I reminded him with a smile, leaning towards him to bump his shoulder gently with mine. "So I think at least some of my academic gifts must have come from you."

He didn't laugh or rib me like he usually would at my poor attempt at a joke.

"Don't ever think I was any less delighted about your achievements than she was."

"I know that, Dad. I celebrated them with you, too, you know."

"I know," he smiled.

After another brief silence, he said, "I'm so sorry if I've let you down, son."

"What do you mean, Dad?" I was shocked by such a notion. "You've never let me down."

"It doesn't sit well with me that you might have thought I really wanted you to go fight in this war. But believe me, I didn't."

Before I could respond, he went on, "Please believe that I never wanted you to do anything that you didn't want to do, Walt. I feel that inadvertently I've coerced you into deciding to go because you thought I wanted you to. And I'm sorry if that's the case."

"Coerced me? Dad, you didn't do that. I don't think that at all. I'm _glad_ to go."

He continued, almost as if he hadn't heard me. "It was painful to watch – I could see how conflicted you were, how you were torturing yourself over it. And I knew how you felt about the war. But I didn't want to influence your decision, because it was too important, and I knew how much it meant to your mother to have you stay. So, I stayed quiet and waited and watched you. I had hoped you might approach me, talk to me about it, and let me help you."

"Of course I wanted to talk to you, Dad," I began. "But I was…"

He lifted one hand up, palm towards me.

"No, please let me finish, Walter," Dad said. "I want to be clear with you. I'm your father, and it was wrong of me to keep away when you were wrestling with such a thing, to leave you to decide by yourself. I should have spoken with you, offered my help if you wanted it. I was so relieved when you told us you had enlisted, simply because you were finally talking again, and because you looked like the weight of the world had been lifted off you. Not because I was happy that you were going. It bothers me that you might have misinterpreted my reaction. So, I'm sorry for that, too."

As I regarded him in the dim light, his face looked so remorseful. So, I tried once more.

"But, Dad, it _was_ my decision to make. You have nothing to be sorry for, and you helped me more than you could know by allowing me to decide for myself. I'm grateful you stayed away. You're right, it was like torture while I resisted going, but now I know it's the right thing for me to do. More than that, it's the _only_ thing to do. You haven't let me down. Ever."

I could see he wasn't convinced. Because, how could I explain to my father that the Piper had been calling for me all along, and now I understood it was inevitable I must go to him?

I didn't want to upset my parents, didn't want to be the cause of their pain. I wished there was some way to alleviate their sorrow, and I knew it was useless to try to explain to them that it was no longer a sacrifice, but a necessity that I go.

There was no other choice for me after what had happened to all those poor, innocent people who had been killed on the _Lusitania_. That tragic ship sinking had been the Piper's trump card, and he had already played it. I had seen my future unfolding so clearly before me then. I knew what would happen and I understood what the Piper required. I'd always known.

I had already said my goodbyes to Di and Nan in Kingsport, and I had observed the same unshed tears in their eyes as Mother had in hers. Seeing me in my uniform was a reminder to them that Jem and Jerry were already at the front, and my sisters already had too much to bear. So I had kissed them both tenderly, and told them both that I love them.

"See you soon," were the last words I had spoken to my twin sisters with a smile, knowing it was a lie, trying to reassure them, too.

I could see that they recognised my deceit, but they didn't say so. I committed both of their brave, beautiful faces to my memory, just like I memorised the faces of the rest of my family on the platform at Glen St Mary.

I smiled at my sturdy brother Shirley, so young and strong. He was not yet old enough to enlist, but he wanted to fly. I could see the envy in his eyes that I was going when he could not. He was standing next to Susan as he shook my hand firmly and wished me good luck.

Then I stood before Una. Who loves me with an intensity that no one else suspects, and that I surely don't deserve. We've always been kindred spirits, Una and I, ever since we were children, and I was always sorry that I could never love her as anything more than a dear sister.

Briefly, I had wondered whether perhaps, if that other world had continued on for just a little longer, if I had more time, maybe then I could have loved her more and better and stronger and just exactly how she had wanted me to. But now that could never be, because that future was part of the old world we'd already left behind.

So I kissed Una's pale, soft cheek gently, noticing the red stain flooding her cheeks at my kiss. I saw the pain clouding her eyes, even as they flashed momentarily when I bent down to her.

"Take care, Una," I said to her, as if she didn't already take care of everyone.

I smiled. It struck me as amusing somehow that kissing her like that in front of everyone might have been quite shocking before the war, only a few short months prior. But now, everyone accepted these shared public demonstrations of affection and love that ought otherwise to have taken place in private.

At last, my gaze fell on my dearest little sister, Rilla. Who was looking up at me so adoringly with her wonderful, trusting hazel eyes twisting at my heartstrings. She was trying so desperately to be brave for me, just like Mother.

Remembering this picture of her was what would keep me strong when I was thousands of miles away. Rilla is so sweet and good, so innocent and gentle. She is the embodiment of all the reasons why I had to go. It is still no mystery to me why Ken Ford loves her so fervently.

"God bless you, Rilla- _my_ -Rilla," I said tenderly as I held her face in my hands.* "You'll remember to write me often, won't you?" I reminded her again.

"I will," she promised me, with such a solemn look on her sweet little face. I squeezed her hand reassuringly.

"Goodbye, darling Rilla," I whispered in her ear before I kissed her.

Her hand felt cold in mine.

"Goodbye, Walter." I could see the tears welling up, spilling over her lashes and trickling silently down her cheeks.

"I'll write back to you, too, just as often as I can," I said, just as merrily as if I was only going back to Redmond, and not to the other side of the world.

I had wanted to cheer her up and see her smile, but I don't think I was too successful because Rilla quickly turned away from me to embrace Mother, burying her face in Mother's shoulder.

I bent to pick up my duffle bag and turned then to board the train.

I could hear Dog Monday howling mournfully as the train pulled away from the station. I stood at the back of the carriage and waved to them, conferring one last picture of them all to my memory. Mother enfolded in Dad's protective arms. Shirley standing bravely with his arm around Susan, and my two dear girls, Rilla and Una, hands clasped together as they waved me off.

Those moments are like treasures to me now, cherished memories that keep my present reality at bay, a place to go when I need to escape the ugliness and death and filth all around me here.

I want to remember every one of those beloved people and hold them all close to my heart more than ever tonight. We go 'over the top' tomorrow, and I'm so tired and glad and relieved to be going because I know peace is waiting for me there. I'm content to do this for them.

I have written them all tonight, sending my loved ones my very best messages of devotion and gratitude. But, greedily, selfishly, I still want to spend some more time being with them, by remembering them for just a little longer. My beautiful family at merry Ingleside on my wind-ruffled Island and the gentle world I left behind that day at Glen St Mary train station. It was for them that I came here to this place of suffering and cruelty.

And still I hear the Piper. He is always whispering in my ear nowadays, mocking me with his irresistible song.

* From _Rilla of Ingleside_ , Chapter 15.


	2. Truth and Hope

_Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter. It's a real thrill for my little story to be so kindly received._

 _All my thanks go once again to LMM and most especially to katherine-with-a-k for her inspiration and support. Have you read 'Call to Arms' yet? If not, you really, really should._

* * *

It was the smell that hit me first. The stomach-churning stench of death and decay and human excrement filling my nostrils the moment I arrived in this place.

Then it was the sounds that engulfed me. Not just the sharp explosions of artillery fire and the menacing rumblings of tanks, but the sounds of men and boys alike, screaming in agony, their blood curdling shrieks calling on God, crying out for their wives, their mothers, their brothers, their sisters, their sweethearts, for each other. It was a relentless wall of noise, drowning out even the Piper's music.

The shock was overwhelming at first, for this is a senseless, brutal and bloody place, full of unimaginable horrors. The ghastly war machine was so unlike anything I'd ever known before in that other peaceful, dream-like life I'd had at Ingleside. Guns constantly belching out shells, the ground shaking with explosions and the stretcher bearers carrying an endless, bloody stream of wounded past us.

It's been said before that war is hell, and believe me, that's the truth.

This place is inhuman, and I still don't understand how this could possibly be the way men seek to create change in the world. Every day I pray that this time, they will remember, and this will be the final time men will do such unspeakable things to each other. But I understand that I am a part of this new world now, and I am resigned to what must be done to satisfy the Piper.

As time wore slowly on, I realised there was no rhyme or reason to the slaughtering and destruction. I've become accustomed to the sleepless nights, the shattering explosions overhead, the rats, the water and the mud; but not the lice. Nobody ever gets used to the lice.

From the moment I arrived in this place, I knew I would never raise my rifle to kill or maim another, for I understood that this was not what the Piper sought: he had other plans for me. In truth, I could never have wilfully killed a man even if I tried. That was the true horror that I had resisted for so long back home in Canada; the very idea of killing another living entity filled me with such mortal dread that I could barely sleep most nights before I came here.

I still can't sleep, but it seems that I can be in this place, endure this devastation all around me, and yet not have to destroy another's life.

It's curious, but I was never afraid of dying. Not because I'm courageous, but because I have always known I wouldn't be taken right away. I understood from the start that wasn't what the Piper had planned for me; I was certain he wouldn't be that merciful. All along it was clear that I had to wait patiently for him, that when the Piper finally took me it would be swift, and that he was merely biding his time for that perfect moment to come.

I feel barely alive in this place anyway, but somehow I have survived witnessing so many harrowing occurrences all day, along with the continuous firing of guns and nightmares keeping me awake at night. This strange half-awake, half-life existence is so disconnected, so foreign to what I'd known as living, that I hardly recognise myself here.

Nonetheless, I have overheard the others in my battalion speak to each other in reverent tones of my stupendous courage in the face of the onslaught. They've even awarded me medals for it.

I hear their awed whispers as they point me out to the new ones: "…That's him there …Blythe won the D. C. Medal… should have won the V.C., you know."

The story is well-known and oft-repeated amongst them, of how I bravely ran into the line of fire to carry my injured comrades back without a thought for my own safety. But I couldn't tell them that wasn't really bravery. When I first arrived at this place, I had been reckless, always taking risks and openly challenging the Piper to take me; but finally I realised that wasn't how he wanted it. I had to wait, just as he had waited all this time for me. So, I didn't think it was particularly courageous for me to do such things, to know the things I knew.

I wasn't fearless like Jem, ready to meet the battle head on without hesitation. I wasn't a hero; there was nothing admirable about what I did. There were so many others here far braver than I. And I couldn't tell them what I knew about the Piper.

Before the war, in that other life, I had often dreamed of coming to France to see glorious masterpieces of art. At one time, I had even briefly considered studying at the Sorbonne. I had imagined myself admiring the French countryside, which I had hoped might inspire me to great writing. Perhaps I would enjoy lofty debates and philosophical banter with the local poets in a café in Paris or dance with a pretty Parisienne girl, imagining myself in a gorgeous scene from a painting by Renoir. Drinking coffee and laughing. Dancing and laughing. Talking and laughing. In those long-ago imaginings of myself in France I was always, always laughing.

Instead, I have spent my time here first in the oppressive heat of the summer, later in cold rain and snow, knee deep in mud and slime, deafened by the shells constantly bursting all around, driven half-mad from scratching in my louse-ridden, filthy uniform. Watching my chums and comrades being butchered; hearing their shouts of distress as they die, with their dead bodies left to rot where they fell in No Man's Land, piled up like so much meat.

Everything here is grey and damp. The spirals of barbed wire mark the landscape, trenches cut like great open gashes into the fields, walls of sandbags piled high and tanks now lumbering mercilessly over the rubble in places where the poppies and wildflowers had once adorned the meadows.

It is summer again now, and the smell is much worse in summer.

I try once more to conjure up the fragrance of the garden at Ingleside from my memory, the familiar perfume of Mother's beloved flowers wafting up from the front of the house. How many times had I tried unsuccessfully to do that? Since I've been at the front, I've never quite managed to summon the smells of home in my imagination through the overpowering stink of death and filth surrounding me here and polluting my nostrils. I fail to capture it again this time.

Now, I only want to help my chums with whatever time I have left here. The others in my regiment need support through their suffering. Their wide, haunted eyes seem to look to me for relief as they shake in fear and shock, duped by a promise of adventure, when the grisly reality of this war is so far from that. So I listen to their stories patiently, sometimes sharing swigs of rum with them or offering cigarettes as comfort.

Sometimes I joke with them, try to make them laugh, tell them improbable stories to distract them, in the hope that they might temporarily forget the filthy, harsh, sickening reality that is all around us, if only for a moment. They call me fearless, but I call it compassion.

More than a few of the younger ones, who lied about their age to enlist, look at me like hunted things, cowering and shivering as they 'stand to', waist deep in the water and mud of the trench.

The older ones sometimes speak to me despondently of their families back home.

"It's all right for you, Blythe, you're not married. But what will happen to my wife and children if I'm killed? How will I work the farm if I'm wounded?"

Often, it is the grim boredom and monotony, as much as the mud and desolation that is the greatest hardship. In between times, some of the men seem to crave the excitement of battle, because the waiting is far worse for them. It's harder for me to distract them by sharing a joke or a cigarette with them then. I can see their nerves stretched taut with macabre anticipation, their haunted, haunting eyes barely blinking and darting back and forth uneasily.

These boys had entrusted themselves to what they thought was their duty to their country and realised too late what that duty really meant.

They call it The Great War. But in truth there is nothing great in this place.

…

At last, I let myself think about _her_. It's a relief to allow myself the luxury of remembering every detail of her once more. She has haunted me for so long, but I can permit myself to recall everything now because we go 'over the top' in the morning.

 _Marguerite_. Even now, picturing her face and saying her name out loud is like a balm to my soul.

I gently unfold the scrap of paper with the poem I'd scribbled out for her, smoothing out the edges carefully on my thigh. The paper is crumpled now, even though I keep it so meticulously folded in my pocket, close to my heart always. The creases in that piece of paper are like her beloved features, they are known so well to me. I read again the words I wrote for her, even though I know them by heart, running the pads of my calloused fingertips gently, lovingly, over the verses as if they were caressing her; as if this action could somehow cast a spell and bring her to me.

That other poem I'd written, the one about the Piper, was the one that others had admired, that I know Mother and Dad will proudly show everyone at the Glen. But this poem to Marguerite is the one I cherish the most. I've not shown it to anyone. I would never show it to anyone else.

The first time I caught sight of Marguerite in her father's noisy café, she had her back to me, but there was something about her that arrested my attention as she placed drinks on the table for a crowd of soldiers who were seated at a table across the room from me.

She was wearing a faded blue dress, with a simple apron tied neatly about her waist. I noticed the dress was a little too large for her, as though she'd lost weight, but it still seemed to somehow complement her slight figure. I found my eyes were drawn to observe the curve of her back, noticing the graceful way her body moved, the glimpse of ivory skin on her arms, her little dimpled hands, the glossy dark curls of her hair pulled back and up, brushing against her creamy neck.

When she turned around and I saw her face for the first time, I felt as though the breath had been knocked out of me. I was stunned, inexplicably overcome with the urge to weep at her loveliness. She possessed the sort of flawless beauty that caused me to finally, truly appreciate what Mother meant when she said she had one of her 'queer aches'. For a moment I believed my heart might explode just from looking at her.

"For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night," * I heard myself murmur aloud as I continued to stare at her, awestruck.

The first of her features that I noticed was her mouth. For she had the most exquisitely luscious, plump, ruby red lips I had ever seen. In an instant, those lips made me forget about the war, forget the shelling, forget the horror. I forgot everything except my overwhelming desire to know her. Absently, I wondered if she could hear my heart hammering in my chest from across the room.

Then I saw her eyes. Sparklingly vivid, sea-blue eyes, the colour of Four Winds Harbour in springtime, and even from that distance, I could see such inexpressible sadness held deep within them. Yet there was also an air of innocence about her. I remember thinking she was too bright, too beautiful, too exquisite to exist in all this ugliness.

She was different from the types of women here who brazenly sought out the soldiers' attentions. I could see that she shied away from the men's lewd suggestions and avoided their groping hands. She seemed oblivious to the jostling and leering of the soldiers and other patrons around her as she quietly went about her work.

I wanted to protect her from the men. I wanted to comfort her, to take the sorrow away from her eyes.

I wanted to caress the pale skin on her face with my fingertips, feel the softness of her cheek against mine. Tendrils of hair that had escaped her topknot framed her face in soft curls, making me long to unpin the rest of those ringlets and comb my fingers through her silky hair.

Most of all I wanted to kiss her. I was overcome with the irresistible urge to touch those soft, full lips with my own.

There was such peace, such solace in observing her beauty that silenced even the Piper's incessant murmurings for a few blissful moments. I should have known then.

I watched, spellbound, as a delicious blush crept up her soft cheeks when she gazed at me with those eyes as deep as the ocean. Then, when she lowered her thick, dark lashes so they fluttered gently down to her cheeks I knew I was done for.

I thought she must have heard my intake of breath because she looked up at me again, only to quickly drop those charming lashes over her fascinating eyes once more. When she looked up a third time, I could merely gape at her stupidly as her lips turned up ever so slightly in the most exquisite smile I had ever seen.

When she smiled like that, I knew she was the answer to every question I'd ever had. I felt a jolt run through my body as powerful as the force from any artillery fire.

Later, I would wonder if she'd felt it too. But in that moment all I could do was stare dumbly, with my heart pounding so wildly I thought my ribs might fracture. All I wanted then was to make her smile again.

I realised I'd been holding my breath as I watched her, so I slowly breathed out as she looked up once more and I smiled at her when our eyes met again. I gulped in another deep breath.

I felt an extraordinary yet somehow familiar wave of feeling wash over me she walked towards me. As that elusive sensation gently wove its magic around me, twisting and curling around my mind, teasing me with its familiarity, I tried desperately to identify it. I was certain I'd known this emotion quite well at one time, in my other life, but I couldn't place it at first. What was it?

It took me several more moments in my dumbfounded state to discover with a shock that what I felt when I looked at her was hope.

I contemplated that for several seconds as I continued to regard her from my seat in the corner. Marguerite gave me _hope_. It was an intoxicating feeling.

For the first time since I'd arrived in this god-forsaken place, I felt as though maybe, just maybe, there was still some beauty to be found in the world. For if _she_ could exist in this world, I reasoned, then surely that was an indisputable fact?

So maybe, just maybe, there was still a possibility in this world for me, too. Or, at least, some vague rendering of me, an echo of me that perhaps even I wouldn't recognise. But some kind of me, nonetheless.

It wasn't much, but it was a chance, however slim, for something else. So I found myself clinging desperately to that hope.

Roses. She always reminded me of roses. There had been a solitary rosebud in a chipped jar on the table in front of me. As she came closer to me, I breathed in again and my nostrils caught the delicate scent of rose, so that it was inextricably linked with her in my mind forever.

The rowdy sounds of the other men around me faded away from my ears as she walked towards me across the crowded café, and I knew I would happily do anything for her. When I looked closely at her face, I realised she was very young. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, but when I studied her eyes more carefully, I could see they seemed so much older than that.

At last she stopped next to my table. Her lilting voice was softly accented as she asked, "Can I help you?"

I blinked as I stared at her. Could she _help_ me? I was bewildered by her question. Didn't she know she'd already helped me more than anyone else in this world ever had, just by _looking_ at me?

Could she help me? Of course she could help me.

I felt my throat constrict as she looked at me expectantly.

" _Oui_ ," I managed to choke out. " _Le vin, s'il vous plait?_ " It was almost the entire extent of my French, but useful enough.

She nodded then turned to retrieve the wine for me, and I had the pleasure of watching her walking once more.

I smiled again. I very nearly laughed out loud. Because I realised it was the first time I'd felt like smiling in such a long time.

Marguerite spoke only a little English and my French wasn't good enough to hold up much of a conversation, so I continued to smile as I watched her move about the cafe, drinking the bottle of wine she'd brought me and taking long drags on my cigarettes. Mother would be horrified at the habits I've developed over here, I reflected wryly to myself.

When I finished the wine, she came over to politely ask me, "More wine, sir?"

I shook my head to indicate no.

Then I finally gathered myself to stutter awkwardly, " _C-comment tu t'appelles, mademoiselle?_ "

"Marguerite," she replied, and blushed again.

I was mesmerised by her, enthralled by the movement of her lips as she spoke. I felt a thrill vibrate through me like electricity and I wanted nothing more than to make her smile at me again.

" _Merci,_ Marguerite," I mumbled, trying desperately to think of something else to say to her so she wouldn't think me a complete dolt. When I couldn't think of anything, I smiled at her like the fool I felt.

She smiled back at me and I was euphoric.

She was a poem. She made me want to write again. She made me wish I could paint her, too. Or sing odes to her. She made me yearn to compose concertos and sonatas and arias for her, if I could. She made me want to crawl on my knees in worship of her beauty.

Above all, Marguerite made me long for the old world, made me wish that I could have met her in different circumstances, that perhaps she could have been the pretty French maiden I danced with in my carefree daydreams of France from long ago. I burned with the desire to court her as I might have in that other life, knowing I would have taken her back to Ingleside with me someday to meet Mother and Dad, my siblings and friends, smiling as I proudly introduced her to them.

But of course, in this world, nothing like that is possible. I should have known from the start that the Piper had other plans for us both.

As I sat in her father's café that afternoon, my eyes followed Marguerite everywhere and I wrote frantically, inspired for the first time in months. And still I hoped.

Always with her, I hoped.

* from Shakespeare, _Romeo and Juliet_ , Act 1, Scene 5.


	3. Lest We Forget

_A/N: My thanks go always to LMM for giving us such beautiful characters._

 _And thanks again to everyone who has read, reviewed and followed this little story. I am forever grateful to you all, and you really make my day._

* * *

Every day I had leave from our training drills, I eagerly made my way to that café, hoping to catch a glimpse of Marguerite, and perhaps talk to her a little.

I ignored the ribbings from the other fellows in my battalion.

"Where are you going, Blythe?" They would smirk knowingly, all guffawing and winking at me as I hastened off in my impatience to see her.

"Oh, I know, he's going to see his _girlfriend_ in the café."

"I can see why he likes her. She's pretty, even if she doesn't speak any English."

"But you're not interested in _talking_ to her, eh, Blythe?"

"No, I don't think he's got conversation on his mind…"

"I wouldn't mind not talking to her either…"

"Tell her ' _bonjour_ ' from us!"

They all laughed uproariously, but I paid no attention to them.

I would just smile as I rushed past them, hastily reaching for my pencil on the way.

"I'm just going to drink some wine and write," I told them. "You boys wouldn't understand."

"Oh, we understand all right," they laughed.

There was such joy and pleasure to be found in just contemplating her that I didn't care about the razzing I got from them. It was blissful to be near her. Albeit an imperfect bliss, but blissful nevertheless, and I coveted whatever kind of bliss I could get in this place.

I revelled in every opportunity of merely looking into those blue eyes, to see her lashes fluttering, to watch her cheeks turn pink when she saw me.

My whole being craved the peace that I experienced simply by being near her. The feeling was astonishing to me, and I couldn't get enough of it. I wondered that the whole world could not hear my heart pounding as it bounced back to life whenever I was close to her.

Every day I went to the café she would bring me the bottle of wine I ordered and place it carefully on the table in front of me with a glass.

Faithfully, I took my notebook and pencil with me to the café, intermittently scribbling words down, striving to adequately capture her in verse. Although I was never completely satisfied with the results, I continued to hope. Just knowing that I wanted to write was comforting to me.

Whenever she would pass by my table, I would stop her and ask her a question, seeking to keep her near me for just a little longer.

At first, I would clumsily ask her to tell me the names of things in French. I knew it was an inept way to start, but in my befuddled state, it was the only way I could think of to win even a few minutes with her.

I saw her hesitating to answer me at first, and initially it seemed that she replied to my inane questions somewhat reluctantly. But slowly I began to hope that perhaps she was growing to like my endless questioning and evident interest in her.

Eventually, I came to realise that Marguerite spoke far more English than I first thought.

"You really speak English very well," I said in surprise. "Why do you pretend not to?"

Shyly, she lowered her softly curling dark lashes and said, "It makes it easier."

"Makes what easier?" I asked, curious.

"It makes it easier to avoid speaking to the soldiers." Then she raised those delicate blue-veined eyelids and her mesmerising eyes looked directly into mine.

I was lost in the vivid blue of her eyes when she looked at me like that, and I wondered if she was telling me this because she didn't think of me like the others. That perhaps she actually wanted to speak to me. My heart thrummed with joy at the thought.

As my French slowly improved with her involuntary and sporadic tuition, I grew bolder and my questions changed.

I found that I was entranced by the sound of Marguerite's voice over the weeks that followed, as I slowly pieced together her story from the fragments that she told me in answer to my endless questions. I would be transfixed when she spoke, watching her lips move, soothed by listening to her honey-like voice, which was only enriched by the velvety lilt of her soft French accent. It was incongruous, it seemed impossible to me that such a golden voice could be describing the devastating effects of the war on her family so matter-of-factly.

Gradually, I learned that Marguerite and her father were the only ones left in her family, and still running the café that had been the family's livelihood since long before the war.

"The German soldiers took my brothers away. They pointed guns at them and said they must come and work for them." Her voice faltered a little. "That was almost two years ago. We haven't seen or heard from them since."

She looked away from me as two tears trickled silently down her cheeks and her voice lowered to little more than a whisper, "I don't know where they are now." I watched her beautiful lips quivering slightly. "I don't know if they're alive or dead."

I wanted to reach out and gently wipe her tears away but her little dimpled hands were already swiping hastily at her cheeks before I could move. She turned from me quickly and walked away.

I thought of my own brothers, and imagined the horror of watching them being marched away from Ingleside with guns pointed at their heads. My heart ached for Marguerite and her father.

After that, I didn't want her to think about the suffering she and her family had experienced because of the war. Instead, I asked her to tell me about her life here before the soldiers had come.

"This used to be a beautiful place. When I was small, about five years old, I used to love running through the fields with my brothers. They were older than me, so I always ran as fast as I could to catch up with them and sometimes I would stumble on the flowers. They would tease me if I fell, but they always turned back to help me up." She smiled wistfully. "They were good to me."

I tried to imagine this barren, grey landscape as she described it, with the fields full of poppies and Marguerite's young life filled with her family's laughter and love. When she told me about her life before the war, I was reminded of my former life in Ingleside.

I looked over at her father. He seemed old and bent as he tended to his work, but I knew he must have only been about the same age as my mother and father. Selfishly, I was glad my parents would never know the hardships of a life such as this.

A few weeks later, I was elated when Marguerite started to cautiously begin to question me. She wanted to know about my life in Canada, about my family.

I told her about Redmond and my aborted studies. She smiled as I told her about the Island, about Ingleside, and how we used to play in Rainbow Valley with our friends as children.

"It sounds so beautiful," she said longingly. "Will you tell me more about your brothers and sisters?"

So I told her about Jem's courage, Shirley's quiet dependability, my chumminess with Di, Nan's beauty, and Rilla's sweetness. I told her about Dad's strength and mother's unwavering love.

"You never speak about your mother. What happened to her?" I asked impulsively.

Her exquisite eyes filled with tears, and I was horrified that I'd blurted out such a question, aghast that I'd made her cry. I wanted to pull the words back and force them to return into my mouth.

"I – I'm sorry," I stuttered penitently. "I shouldn't have asked that. You don't have to tell me. Please forgive me."

Marguerite's lips were trembling slightly as she drew in a deep breath. I wondered for a moment if it may have been a sob.

"My mother was very beautiful. People used to say I looked like her, but I think she was far more beautiful than me, and her hair was fairer than mine. She would always scold my brothers when they teased me, even though I didn't really mind when they did. She told them that they must always look after me and gentlemen don't tease their sisters."

A faint smile hovered on her lips. "She would brush my hair every night before I went to bed, and then hug me so tightly when she kissed me goodnight." Marguerite had a faraway look in her eyes, and then she sighed, turning her eyes back to me, and I could see the grief etched clearly in her face. "I miss her every day."

I was sure she was going to walk away from me then, but to my surprise she continued.

"Papa loved her so much," she went on. "When she... died... of typhoid, I thought he might die, too, from grief. My brothers and I were so worried about him. Not long after that, the war started, and the Germans came."

She straightened then, pulling her shoulders back proudly and her sea blue eyes were solemn, yet so brave. "It's just Papa and I now, so I must look after him. He works too hard and worries about me so." I felt a pain in my chest at what she'd had to endure because of this war. "I'm all he has left now."

In the following weeks, little by little, she told me more. About her school, growing up and working with her family at the café, her mother's gentle, loving touches and her father's booming, hearty laugh.

"I've never heard him laugh," I blurted out unthinkingly.

" _Non_ , Private Blythe," she said gently. I saw her face become sombre as she looked carefully towards her father across the room. "He never laughs now."

I scarcely heard her whisper, since I was distracted by the lowering of those fascinating lashes and the vibration that shot through me at the sound of my name on her lips.

Marguerite went very quiet for a time after that, and I felt like a cad again for saying something so stupid and careless.

Although I never asked her, I hoped against hope that Marguerite had not had to endure any violence at the hands of desperate, pillaging soldiers. But her sorrowful eyes told me otherwise. I had heard too many stories, and seen too often the effects on women who had been brutalised by the war. Her splendid, glorious, too-old eyes told me everything I didn't want to know about what the war had done to her.

She never spoke of it, but I knew.

…

It was a bright summer's day, towards the end of our training, when I caught sight of Marguerite walking down the street, and I couldn't believe my luck to meet her this way, without the distractions of her work in the café.

I felt hope soar brightly within me once again as I hurried towards her. I could see her pace quicken slightly too, and I wondered if it was because she wanted to hasten towards me.

I felt tongue tied and my heart leapt, beating faster in my chest as I drew near to her. At last we were facing each other, only a step apart, and I could see her smiling up at me as I grinned stupidly.

It was blissful to stand this close to her.

" _Bonjour_ , Marguerite," I smiled at the sight of her beautiful face turned up in the sunlight.

She was standing so close to me now that I could clearly see each curling eyelash framing her sparkling blue eyes. The skin of her cheeks was flushed pink, and I hoped it was because of me.

" _Bonjour_ , Private Blythe," she sighed breathlessly. Distractedly, I detected the faint scent of roses.

The breeze had caused one of her delectable curls to escape from beneath her hat, and it was fluttering in front of her face, tickling her nose as she looked up at me with those gorgeous clear blue eyes.

Without thinking, I reached out to gently tuck the curl back behind her ear. My fingers lingered by her ear, almost of their own volition, lightly caressing the soft skin just behind it for a moment. My fingertips tingled at the feel of the silken strands of her hair and her delicate skin.

I was hypnotised by the proximity of her mouth, with those delicious lips parted slightly as her face tilted upwards to look at me.

"Please, call me Walter," I whispered.

I couldn't drag my eyes away from her mouth, and I was so desperate to kiss her that my chest hurt. I felt as though the very air between us was charged with electricity, and I couldn't breathe.

"Walter," she murmured, so softly I barely heard it.

That was the moment I knew.

It felt like fire was running through my veins when I heard her say my name like that. As that one word was carried on her sweet breath over those plump red lips; that was the moment I finally recognised that it was not just hope, not merely appreciation of her astonishing beauty that drew me to her. It dawned on me in a rush.

I loved her. Understanding engulfed me so suddenly that it left me feeling winded.

I loved her. I saw that my previous fanciful infatuations had been so far removed from this powerful feeling that they paled in comparison. That I'd been so dead inside since I enlisted, so distracted by my internal struggles with the Piper, that I had been incapable of truly feeling everything until I heard my name spoken from her lips like that.

Until that moment, I'd only known that I was mysteriously drawn to her, aware that I needed to be near her, that her presence was so soothing and her beauty so stunning that I was inspired to write for her.

But now I knew I loved her. I adored her. I was intoxicated by her. More than that, as I stared, transfixed by her on that bright sunny day in the summer of 1916, I knew that I wanted her beyond anything I'd ever wanted either in this world or the old world. I craved to be with her always. All ways.

"Our training finishes soon, and I have a day's leave in two weeks," I heard myself say to her. I was still transfixed by her lips, unable to drag my gaze away from them. "Would your father allow you some time away from the café?"

I realised I was still caressing her soft hair with my fingers, but I didn't have the strength to release the glossy curls from my touch and she didn't seem to mind.

"Yes," she said, smiling so happily that I thought my heart would burst.

I could barely contain my joy at her answer. I felt a broad smile spread across my face, felt my lips slowly parting across my teeth and it felt strange, stiff, as though those muscles had atrophied with lack of use.

" _Merci_ , Marguerite."

I rejoiced in my feelings of happiness and hope at the promise of being alone with her. The warmth bursting from my heart was pulsing exuberantly all through my body.

I resolved then to do everything in my power to make her happy, to help her however I could and always make her smile. To protect her and make sure that she was never hurt again. I wanted to live my life with her by my side, to cherish her and love her forever.

Somehow, I would find a way to do all of those things and to be with her. In spite of the war.

And in only two weeks, we would finally be alone together.

Bristling with determination, distracted by the thunderous beating of my heart and overwhelmed by love, I didn't hear the Piper's laughter.


	4. Hope Springs Eternal

_A/N - I am eternally grateful to everyone who has been reading and for your kind reviews. You don't know how much it means to me._

* * *

After the revelation of that joyful encounter in the street with Marguerite, I felt as though I was in a dream.

I stood there in the sunshine in front of her, staggered by the intensity of my feelings for her. After shutting down my dreams for so long, it was as though the floodgates had suddenly been opened and now I was astonished by the force of my own emotions.

A torrent of hope coursed through my veins and I was drunk with it, barely able to think coherently.

"May I walk you back?" I asked. I was still staring at her lips and caressing her hair. I knew I should be returning to the training camp, but I didn't care.

"I would like that," she replied, dazzling me with her smile.

I could hardly believe it when she agreed so readily, and at last my fingers reluctantly let go of her enchanting ringlet of hair. My fingertips skimmed past her ear as I brought my hand back to my side and her eyelashes fluttered again.

I offered her my arm, and I could barely comprehend what was happening when I saw her slipping her little dimpled hand up to grasp my forearm as we set off.

I felt stunned as I walked beside her and she chattered on gaily. I wanted to pinch myself to make sure this wasn't a dream. Marguerite was walking next to me, her hand tucked into my arm, with her face glowing in the sunshine and chatting happily. Just as though this was a commonplace occurrence and we did this all the time. Just as though she _wanted_ it to happen all the time.

"Isn't it a beautiful day?" she asked brightly as we set off together.

"Yes, beautiful," I agreed, still unable to tear my gaze away from her mouth.

"Papa asked me to see if I could find some eggs for the café," she told me, indicating her basket.

"Oh! Please, may I help you carry that?" I asked her, embarrassed that I hadn't offered sooner.

" _Merci_ , Private …ah …Walter," Marguerite hesitated a little as she said my name again, and I felt a thrill course through my body at the sound.

She smiled up at me shyly as she handed the basket over, and I felt her fingers brush mine lightly as I took it from her. I delighted in watching her cheeks flush a darker shade of pink.

"You're welcome."

The unfamiliar broad grin split my face once more. It felt a little less strange to me this time.

"Oh," I heard her gasp abruptly. I noticed she was looking at my mouth. Perhaps I hadn't perfected my smile just yet.

"Are you all right?" I asked her solicitously.

"What? Ah, yes…yes, thank you." But I thought she seemed a little flustered.

"Where did you find the eggs?" I looked askance at the few small eggs that were nestled in the basket, dismayed at the deprivations she had to suffer because of the war.

"The farmer just outside the village still has chickens, you know. I told him he could eat at the café tonight in return for the eggs."

In my besotted condition, I found I had to concentrate on her words as I walked next to her. In fact, I had to concentrate very hard indeed just to remember to breathe. All I could feel were her little dimpled hands clinging to my arm as we walked, all I could see were her blue eyes sparkling as they smiled up at me.

Above all, as always, I was entranced by her irresistible lips, barely able to stop myself from kissing them.

"I think I will try to bake something," she continued. "We still have some flour and a little sugar stored. Would you like to come in to the café? I'm sure there would be enough to spare for you…" She stopped and her eyes went wide as she looked up at me, as though she was a little surprised at her own boldness to ask me such a thing.

"No, thank you. I'm afraid I have to get back soon," I told her regretfully. I watched as her lashes slowly lowered, and I thought she seemed as disappointed as I was that I couldn't stay.

"Oh, well, perhaps next time then," she murmured, seeming nervous again.

"My leave is a fortnight from tomorrow," I heard myself announce. "I could meet you at ten o'clock by the fountain in the village square?"

Was I actually arranging to meet her?

"Yes, that would be wonderful," she said a little breathlessly.

Her luminous blue eyes were casting their spell on me once more, and I'd forgotten how to breathe. Again.

 _I love you. I love you. I love you._ The words ran exultantly over and over in my head as I walked next to her, smiling at her beautiful face.

"How much longer will you be training?"

"I think we'll be finished in a few weeks," I replied, and I thought her face fell a little.

At last we stood close together in front of the entrance to her father's café. I had placed the basket of precious eggs on the table next to us and she looked up at me with her huge eyes fixed on mine. I felt as though I would gladly drown in their clear blue depths.

I was spellbound as I watched her delectable lips when she said, "Thank you for walking me, Walter. _Au revoir_."

"It was my pleasure," I smiled, thinking it a grossly inadequate understatement. _I love you_.

Feeling more intoxicated than ever from her nearness, I bumbled on, "Thank you for the honour of allowing me to escort you."

What was I saying? I sounded like some lovesick knight of yore. I was grateful that I hadn't called her "m'lady" or uttered some other foolishly outdated words. What had happened to Walter Blythe, the toast of Redmond, literary genius, master of language?

Luckily I was too stupefied to say anything else to her, but I was also terrified that perhaps I was going to blurt out, "I love you," at any moment.

I could feel her hand still resting lightly on my forearm, and I didn't want her to take it away.

Mesmerised by her, I watched breathlessly as her enticing lips parted a little, and she tilted her face upwards ever so slightly, almost expectantly. It was as if…as if…

Whatever semblance of rational thought I had remaining deserted me in that moment.

Instinctively, I stepped even closer to her. Distantly, I became aware that I was slowly leaning down to her; one arm had found its way around her waist. My other hand was behind her head, and my fingers were tangled in the soft curls at the nape of her neck. Before I could think, I was gently pulling her face closer to mine.

"Good bye, Marguerite," I whispered.

I felt her hand moving slowly along my forearm, eventually coming to rest at my wrist with her soft fingers gently caressing my skin. Her other hand had crept high on my shoulder, and I could feel her fingers touching my hair.

Her face was only inches from mine now, and my lips were tingling in anticipation, almost touching her soft mouth at last. Her enchanting lashes were fluttering as she stared at my mouth and then up at my eyes. I could feel her sweet breath blowing across my lips in delicious little puffs as I drew closer.

Those soft lips were almost touching mine. I had stopped breathing.

"Come on, Blythe!" I heard one of the boys from my battalion call to me from across the street. "We've got to get back by four."

I halted only a fraction away from her lips, releasing my breath quickly, trying to disguise my disappointment. Our eyes were still locked together and she blinked slowly. I very nearly groaned into her mouth in my frustration.

Somehow I slowly pulled myself away from those tantalising lips before I could kiss them, and I gently traced a path over her cheek and across her lower lip with my finger.

I whispered next to her ear, "See you in two weeks."

I saw her shiver. She closed her eyes and I heard her sigh. It was the most glorious sound I'd ever heard.

"Two weeks," she repeated slowly.

" _Au revoir_."

"Goodbye, Walter."

Reluctantly, I let go of her and stepped away. I turned and walked over to join my chums who were sniggering and making loud kissing noises at me from across the street.

"Hurry up, Romeo."

"Did she teach you any more French, Blythe?" They laughed.

"I'll say she did!" More laughter.

"Let's get a move on. We're late, Blythe."

They were waving at Marguerite as they called, "Farewell, _mademoiselle_!"

As usual, I didn't reply to their jests, merely smiled at them smugly.

Just as I reached the street corner, I looked back and I could see her standing outside her father's café, still watching me. The fingers of one hand were gently touching her lips, the other was raised in farewell to me.

My breath caught in my throat, and I thought my heart would explode at her loveliness.

I waved at her, smiling broadly once more, and turned the corner, with my pals nudging me in the ribs with their elbows and guffawing as we hurried back to camp.

…

Two weeks. I could scarcely contain my joy at the thought that in only two weeks Marguerite and I would finally be alone together. At last.

I spent those two weeks dreaming about Marguerite, day and night. I was jubilant, overflowing with bliss, delighting in my new-found excitement.

I couldn't recall ever being as joyous as I was in those weeks. Not even in my old life had I ever felt so elated and alive with hope.

During those two weeks, I couldn't stop thinking about Marguerite. I didn't want to stop thinking about her.

And writing about her; I couldn't stop writing about her. I was brimming with hope and words were finally bubbling up to the surface. My pencil seemed to fly with a will of its own over the page. I was fairly dripping with words for her.

I was astonished at how easily writing came to me now. Now that I understood my feelings and the gift she had given me, I was awash with inspiration. Even during our training drills, I was composing verses to her in my head.

Training was hard, but every spare minute I had during those two weeks were spent recollecting those few minutes we'd had together on the street, and writing feverishly for long hours, late into the night.

I was ecstatic, joyfully reliving each precious memory I had of her. Over and over, I relived the delight of our almost-kiss. I remembered the way her eyelashes had fluttered, how her sweet breath had touched my lips, the sound of her shuddering sigh when we parted, the feel of her fingers as they caressed the skin on my wrist.

During the training drills, I was remembering the feel of her hair on my fingertips and the soft skin behind her delicate ear.

As I practiced marching, I could scarcely see anything else but those lips, her sparkling blue eyes, her smile. I savoured every detail of remembering her face turned up to me in the sunlight, with that delicious curl fluttering in front of her face.

I relished the memory of the enchanting flush on her cheeks, delighting in remembering her sea blue eyes gazing into mine and her dark lashes fluttering alluringly in the sunshine.

In the evenings I would spend hours imagining every detail of my future with her, and dreaming of the day I would finally introduce her to my family.

I could see it all so clearly. When I took her to Ingleside to meet them, I knew exactly what everyone would do.

Mother would rush down the front steps of Ingleside to meet her, enfolding Marguerite in a warm embrace, and whispering, "Welcome, darling," in her ear.

I could see Dad standing behind them, winking at me in approval over their heads.

"She's a beauty, Walt," he would say smilingly, his eyes crinkling at the corners as they always did when he was charmed.

In my daydreams, I saw my sisters' delighted faces when they met her, as they grabbed her hands and dragged her off to a corner to excitedly ask her a million questions about how we met and all about France.

Meanwhile, Susan would be in an utter frenzy in the kitchen, baking a wealth of treats to impress her. I could see Shirley smiling at her shyly and Jem shaking my hand saying, "Well done, Walter," with his hazel eyes twinkling.

My family would adore her, just as I did. I was certain of that.

All through those two weeks, innumerable questions tumbled through my mind as I imagined our future together. Would we be married here in France or in Canada? Or maybe both? Dare I ask her to wait for me when I saw her again? Was it too soon? Would it be better to ask her to write me, and then secure a promise from her once the war was over?

I found myself wondering if she would come to live with me in Canada permanently, or would she want me to stay here in France with her, so she could stay close to her father? Then I decided I didn't care where we lived, as long as we were together.

I wondered how many children we would have. I imagined our daughter, a tiny version of her mother with adorable dark curls and round blue eyes. I pictured our son, a sturdy lad that I knew she would dote on. I envisaged Marguerite cuddling a baby in her arms, with her blue eyes smiling at me with love.

Every day of those rapturous two weeks, I was remembering and planning. Remembering every detail of those precious moments Marguerite and I had already spent together and planning our future together.

Those two delightful weeks of hope and brightness were the happiest of my life. I was brimming with hope, and I could feel it bubbling to the surface of my consciousness every time I thought of Marguerite. I was so light hearted in my anticipation of her that I could scarcely contain myself.

I was so completely engrossed, floating in my hopeful dreams of a future with Marguerite, so diverted by my optimism and expectation, that I had forgotten the Piper entirely. I was so confident in that beautiful potential life with Marguerite, that I had overlooked my obligations to the Piper and his plans for my future.


	5. Some Kind of Wonderful

**Many thanks once again for reading and reviewing. You are all very kind and generous.**

 **Marguerite decided she wanted to give me her version of events. So here she is...**

* * *

The café was particularly noisy and full of rowdy soldiers shouting and laughing that day.

The soldiers often came here when they took leave from their training. I hated that they were what kept my father and me alive now; that we depended on their business ever since my brothers had gone.

I hated that they all wanted to touch me, drunkenly groping and whispering the most lascivious things about me to each other. More than anything, I hated this war.

Before that awful day the Germans took my brothers away, I had never hated anything. I had enjoyed such a peaceful, simple, carefree life here with my family, there was nothing to hate.

But that was all gone now. That life was ended now because of the war.

Over time, I had become adept at walking through a room full of soldiers while avoiding the worst of the men's attempts to touch me, and I pretended that I didn't understand their crude efforts to talk to me.

I had just finished serving more drinks to an exceptionally boisterous table when I turned and saw him for the first time. I almost dropped the tray I was carrying. I'm still not sure whether I gasped out loud. I suddenly felt light-headed and wondered for a moment if my legs would continue to support me. My hand instinctively reached out to grasp the chair in front of me.

He was beautiful. It was heaven just to look at him. I stood there in the middle of the café, frozen in wonder at the sight of him.

I could tell instantly that he wasn't like the other soldiers who came to the cafe. He looked like an angel, with his black hair shining even in the dull light inside the café. I almost expected to see his angel's wings tucked in behind his back. Where did he come from? Surely, he wasn't of this world.

He was sitting alone in the corner of the café, one long leg stretched out in front of him, the other leg tucked under his chair. His left hand was resting on the table with a cigarette dangling languidly between his fingers, a thin curl of smoke delicately weaving its way upward from the tip of his cigarette in front of his wonderful angel's face. He had a stub of pencil tucked behind his ear and his cap was resting on the table in front of him, as if he'd thrown it carelessly aside when he sat down.

He held himself so upright, and there was something so regal in his bearing, such a quietness in his manner that set him apart from the others. I thought he must be an officer at first, but then I saw that he was wearing the uniform of a Private in the Canadian army.

He was looking straight at me with grey eyes so lovely, so intense that I felt sure they could see right through me. I was afraid that he would perceive all the dreadful things I had had to endure and all the terrible things I'd had to do since the war had intruded upon our peaceful lives here. I found myself wondering if he could see what the soldiers had done to me on that hideous day they took my brothers away.

I felt flustered and breathless when I saw him looking at me like that, and I glanced down, unable to meet the force of his eyes upon me, ashamed at what he might see.

I could feel my cheeks growing hot with a confusing blush. How could his gaze alone inspire such a reaction in me, when the explicit, vulgar comments I constantly received from the other soldiers did not?

When I looked up again, I saw that his body was leaning forward now, angled slightly further toward me, and I wondered if he had seen the jolt go through my body when I first looked over at him. That unwavering grey gaze still held me pinned to the spot where I stood.

A thick lock of his dark hair had flopped forward over his forehead, and I immediately wanted to smooth it back on his head. His nose, forehead and cheekbones were highlighted by the sunburn on his skin, and the angle of his strong jaw made me want to beg him to run my fingers over it. My breath was caught in my breast.

I had to look down again for a moment, shocked by my reaction to him, but I couldn't resist raising my eyes to him once more. When I glanced up this time, I felt sure he must truly be an angel. His face looked exactly like a picture of the Archangel Michael I'd seen at church.

In that moment I noticed his lips, and I couldn't seem to take my eyes away from them. Those full, almost feminine lips were mesmerising in their beauty, and I was entranced by them.

I was confused and strangely elated by him. How could such a beautiful creature be here in the midst of all the ugliness of this war? Was he really an angel? Had he been sent here to help me through the war? I smiled at my own foolishness to think that an angel would come here to the café for me, but I couldn't deny the thought.

Then I watched, fascinated, as his entire face was transformed by that lush, sensuous mouth slowly curving upwards in a smile so spellbinding that I was breathless again.

As I watched his face light up in that sweet, irresistible smile I could feel my whole body vibrating with a thrill of pure pleasure.

After a moment, I remembered myself, and walked towards him, steadying myself to take his order. I felt his hypnotic stare inexorably drawing me to him like a magnet.

 _What does one say to an angel?_ I wondered to myself.

Although I spoke more English than I wanted to let the other soldiers know about, now I wished that it was a little better so that I could speak to him properly.

I felt his eyes watching me as I walked toward him and I hoped he wouldn't notice my legs were still wobbling a little.

When I was standing next to his table, I was able to study the glory that was his beautiful face in even better detail. He looked up at me through his clear grey eyes, and I saw that they were framed by the longest black lashes I'd ever seen on a man. I felt as though I were drowning in those shimmering orbs. Even so, I could see such sadness deep within those wonderful eyes, and suddenly I wanted to comfort him somehow, although he hadn't spoken a word.

As I looked down at him, I wanted to speak to him in English, to make sure that he knew that he could talk to me if he wanted to.

"Can I help you?" I asked, glad that I seemed to have recovered my powers of speech and anxious for my accent not to sound too provincial.

Those intense grey eyes were gazing up at me so gratefully then, that I wondered for a moment if I'd got the English wrong in my trance-like state, and asked him something else instead.

To my surprise, he replied in French.

" _Oui_. _Le vin, s'il vous plait?_ " His voice was low and raspy, and I felt a delicious shiver run up my spine at the sound.

I stood staring at him dumbly for what seemed like hours, but may only have been a few seconds. Finally, I nodded and turned to get the wine, quietly rejoicing inside that I had a reason to go back to him.

…

After that day, he came in to the café quite often. I could feel my heart thump in my breast and my legs turn to jelly whenever I saw him walk in and smile at me.

He always ordered a bottle of wine which he would drink slowly while he smoked cigarette after cigarette, and I always felt that delicious little shiver when he would say my name in his low, gentle voice. I noticed that he always brought paper and a pencil with him and he would scribble down notes every so often.

On the second day he came in, I bravely asked him his name.

"Walter. Walter Blythe," he said in that compelling voice with his grey eyes holding mine in their spell.

It was the most beautiful name I'd ever heard, especially when spoken from those enticing lips of his.

"H-how do you do, Private Blythe?" I stuttered stupidly.

"Please, call me Walter," he admonished me gently, smiling.

I thought I would fall over with pure exhilaration at that request.

But no matter how many times he asked me to call him by his first name over the following weeks, I couldn't. Somehow, I didn't trust myself to say the word out loud in case I swooned in front of him like a silly lovesick child. I didn't want him to think me an even greater fool than I was sure he already did.

But every time he smiled his angel's smile at me, my heart would beat a little faster, and I could feel my knees trembling in response to him.

I was surprised when he started asking me questions, wondering why he would pay any attention to me, worried at what he would see if he looked at me too closely. His questions were hesitant at first, and he would usually ask me how to say something in French. I was unsure about answering him, already nervous and aware of his gaze on me.

Occasionally, he would reach out and his fingers would lightly brush the back of my hand to stop me so he could ask me another question in his delicious voice. Every time he touched me like that, I would feel a shock like electricity surge right up my arm and all the way through my body.

Gradually, I found myself telling Walter about my family, about my mother and my brothers. I spoke of them so rarely now, because it upset Papa too much, and I didn't want to add to his burden.

When Walter looked at me with such intensity and asked questions about me like I mattered to him, I could feel the hate evaporating off me. In his soothing presence I felt like the old me again, like the real Marguerite, the one I'd been before the war, before the hate. The one I'd buried, overwhelmed by the events of the past two years. It was like he was digging me up, lifting me out of myself.

As I answered Walter's questions, I wondered what sort of miracle it was that had brought him here. What kind of miracle that he would even want to talk to me? What kind of miracle was it that he would be looking at me with such tenderness in his grey eyes?

Eventually, I decided to accept that he was simply some kind of wonderful miracle.

I found myself thinking about him constantly. I wondered if he came to our café every time he had leave, or if he also went to other places. I was inexplicably unhappy at the thought that he might spend any of his spare time elsewhere.

Eventually, I grew brave enough to ask him some questions in return. I wanted to know where he came from, and what his life was like before the war.

He was so handsome, I felt sure he must have a girlfriend at home. Perhaps he was engaged or even married. But he never spoke of anyone special like that, only his siblings, his parents, his friends.

As he told me about his home and family in Canada, I started to fantasise about going there with him one day, imagining myself by his side as he took me home to meet his parents. He painted such a vivid picture of the beautiful island that he came from, the home he grew up in, and most especially his family. It reminded me of how my family used to be, before the war.

I felt as though I grew to know his parents and siblings from hearing the stories he told me in the precious few moments I was able to snatch with him at the café. I dreamed that if I ever met them, perhaps they might like me a little; I imagined his mother smiling at me, enfolding me in her warm embrace when she saw me, and his father's hazel eyes crinkling at the corners as Walter had told me they did when he laughed. Perhaps I would become friends with his sisters, and his brothers might joke with me merrily, just as my own brothers had long ago.

I knew it was impossible, but surely there was no harm in dreaming?

He spoke of them so lovingly, so warmly, telling me his stories in his soothing voice with a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes, and I realised that I loved his family. At the same time, I knew I loved them because I loved him.

Of course I loved him. The knowledge didn't seem to surprise me. How could I not love him? I think I'd loved him from the start.

…

I was just returning from Mr Bertrand's farm after bargaining with him for half a dozen eggs, when I saw Walter across the street. I thought my heart had skipped a beat.

He looked so beautiful and he was walking towards me. I felt the magnetic pull of his eyes once more as my pace automatically sped up to meet him.

I was breathless from rushing when I finally stood in front of him, unsure of what to say. I looked up and up until my head was tilted right back so that I could see his beautiful eyes. I had never stood this close to him before, and he was much taller than I had realised. His uniform somehow enhanced his broad shoulders and lean frame in the sunshine.

Those wonderful grey eyes were sparkling, and I could see little creases around them as he squinted in the brightness of the day. A beautiful smile lit up his face and took my breath with it.

My legs had turned to jelly again, and my heart was beating so wildly I was sure he must hear it.

" _Bonjour_ , Marguerite," he said, his voice so low that a shiver ran up my spine and I felt my heart drop down to my shoes and back again.

" _Bonjour_ , Private Blythe," I replied stupidly. _I love you._

I felt a tendril of my hair blowing across my face as I gazed up at him. He reached over and gently tucked the stray lock of hair behind my ear, his hand lingering there for a moment. It felt as though my body was on fire at his touch.

"Please, call me Walter," he breathed. His eyes were fixed on my mouth, and I felt my whole body trembling. I wanted him to kiss me so badly, that I was panting for breath.

"Walter," I whispered. I was amazed that I'd finally managed to say it to him. _Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me._

I could see his grey eyes burning with something, but I didn't know what.

Before I could gather my wits, he was asking me to meet him on his next day of leave in two weeks' time. I knew I should have said I'll need to ask Papa first, but instead I just agreed.

I could hardly believe my ears when he asked to walk back to the café with me. I didn't think about the answer to that question either. It seemed I wasn't able to say anything but yes to him.

It was like a dream as he gallantly offered me his arm, and I rejoiced at the feeling of grasping his firmly muscled forearm and breathing in his nearness. He was walking with me. He was talking with me. He was smiling at me. I felt like the luckiest girl on earth. _I love you._

Then he offered to carry the basket of eggs for me. I felt that jolt pulse through me once more as his fingers brushed against mine.

" _Merci_ , Private – ah – Walter," I hesitated as I said his beloved name again.

But then he was looking down at me with the most glorious smile lighting up his whole face, and making my head spin. I heard myself gasp and for a moment, I thought I might faint. What was wrong with me?

"Are you all right?" he was asking me attentively, with his beautiful face still glowing in the sunlight.

I was so confused and light headed, that I wasn't entirely sure. _Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me._

"What? Ah, yes," I lied. "Yes, thank you."

I started prattling on mindlessly about the eggs in my nervousness, and I scarcely knew what I was saying to him.

My heart was thudding in my breast and I couldn't stop smiling with pride at being on his arm like that, walking next to him like we were husband and wife. It was what I'd been dreaming of ever since that day I realised he was my angel.

I was shocked when I heard myself asking him to come in to the café with me so presumptuously. What would he think of me?

"No thank you. I'm afraid I have to get back soon," he said politely.

Of course he wouldn't want to come in with me. He was just being gracious by walking me back. How could I be so forward? I tried to hide my disappointment as I looked away and murmured something self-consciously.

Finally, we arrived at the café and I watched him carefully place the basket on the table next to us.

"Thank you for walking me, Walter. _Au revoir_."

He was smiling at me again. I watched his lips form the word 'pleasure' and I couldn't take my hand off his arm.

I knew I should have turned to go then. I knew Papa would be wondering what had taken me so long. I knew I should have picked up the basket and waved him good bye. I knew what I should do. But I didn't do any of those things.

Instead, I was unable to stop myself from tilting my face up to his. I was appalled to discover I so desperately wanted him to kiss me that I had turned into some kind of shameless hussy.

But then, he had stepped even closer to me and I felt his arm slowly slip around my waist. His other hand was in my hair, gently caressing the back of my head.

"Good bye, Marguerite," he whispered.

I didn't even realise I had moved my hand up his forearm until I suddenly felt the soft skin of his wrist beneath my fingertips. My other hand had moved with a will of its own to finally stroke the sleek black hair above his collar.

I was panting again, unable to draw an even breath. His mouth was so close, and those hypnotic grey eyes were dark with desire as he lured me closer with them.

I couldn't think, couldn't breathe properly. I had to hold on to him to stay upright.

My eyes were moving from his mouth to his eyes, unable to decide where to look. I could feel the warmth of his body pressed against mine and I was breathless with anticipation.

Our lips were almost touching now. I thought I really might faint.

"Come on, Blythe!" I heard a voice calling him in the distance.

Then I felt his warm breath rush across my lips and into my mouth as he pulled away from me with those grey eyes still holding mine captive.

I held my breath as I felt his fingertip slide across my cheek and then gently over my bottom lip.

"See you in two weeks," his voice whispered low in my ear, causing another delicious thrill to course through my body.

I closed my eyes and sighed in pleasure.

"Two weeks," I repeated, idiotically.

In a daze, I was only vaguely aware that he had stepped away to walk over to where the other soldiers were waiting for him.

My fingers were touching my still-tingling mouth where his fingertip had brushed it, and I couldn't breathe properly.

When he reached the corner, I saw him turn around to look back at me with such want in his eyes. I couldn't believe that a miraculous being like him was looking at me like that. I raised my hand in farewell and stared as he turned the corner.

And in only two weeks, we would be alone together.


	6. Where Angels Fear to Tread

**My sincere thanks go once again to LMM and to everyone who has been reading and reviewing** _._

* * *

After those two glorious weeks spent burning in the exquisite torture of anticipation, at last the day arrived when we'd arranged to meet.

I smiled at the usual banter from my chums.

"Going for some more French lessons, Blythe?"

"Remember that place I told you to take her. It's a good place to be _alone_."

"How much French can you speak now?"

"I think he's fluent!"

I chuckled along with their jokes this time, unable to hide my buoyant mood, knowing I would finally be spending time alone with Marguerite.

I reached the village square absurdly early, but I didn't want to waste a single second of precious time with her. I couldn't wait to see her, to feel her, to smell her, to taste her. I was going to savour this chance to be alone with her, and delight in every opportunity to kiss those enticing lips thoroughly at long last, just as I'd always wanted to.

Nothing else mattered.

I had everything planned out so carefully for our day together. I didn't want to shock her with the depth of my feelings, so I had decided that I would simply read her poetry, kiss her as often as she'd let me and then ask her if she would write to me. I would be satisfied if she would agree to that for now.

I'd brought a book of Shakespeare's sonnets to read to her, and perhaps give to her as a memento. The neatly folded page with the poem I'd written for her was tucked in my breast pocket, along with a tiny rosebud that I'd found to give to her.

As I waited by the fountain and the minutes slowly ticked on, I grew more and more nervous, while I paced back and forth apprehensively. I started to wonder if maybe she'd changed her mind. Perhaps I had misread her apparent enthusiasm to see me today. Should I go to the café to find her?

Just when my alarm was escalating into full blown panic, I glanced up and saw that she was across the street, hurrying towards me. My heart leapt within my chest.

I was so relieved to see her that I was frozen to the spot for a moment, drinking in the sight of her.

"Marguerite," I exhaled her name like a prayer.

She was smiling brightly and waving to me as I crossed the street towards her. " _Bonjour_ , Walter!"

I felt the thrill pulse through my body once more at hearing my name on her lips. My heart was suddenly beating a little faster as I imagined those soft lips on mine, just as I always did whenever I saw her.

I could see her dark curls peeking out from under her straw hat and I longed to touch them again. I smiled and waved back as I started to walk towards her, luxuriating in the sight of her, unable to disguise my delight that those lips were curved in a smile for me.

Finally we were standing close together, and her eyes were shining.

I held the rosebud out to her and she took it from me, smiling shyly.

" _Merci_ ," she whispered, blushing.

She lowered her eyes, lifting the flower to her nose and I immediately wanted her to look at me again.

Her hair was lustrous in the sunlight, and my curl was waving in the breeze again, so I couldn't resist reaching up to feel its softness beneath my fingertips for a moment.

To my relief, her eyes were upon my face once more and they were so lovely that I was ready to fall at her feet in supplication.

" _Bonjour_ , Marguerite. You look beautiful today."

Although it was true, it seemed I couldn't prevent myself from saying whatever was in my head whenever I was with her.

"So do you," she breathed.

Then her eyes grew wide as she covered her mouth with her hand and she looked so adorably shocked that I laughed. The sound of my own laughter startled me, it was so unfamiliar now.

"Men aren't supposed to be beautiful," I said as I reached up to gently draw her hand away from her mouth. I wanted to see all of her face.

"But you are," she said, seriously. "You look like an angel." Her eyes dropped to look at my still smiling mouth. "Especially when you laugh."

I entwined my fingers with hers, brushing my thumb across the back of her hand, and delighting in the feel of her.

"Believe me, Marguerite, I'm not an angel," I smiled.

"Walter…" her voice seemed to waver a little as she continued to stare at my lips.

At the sound of my name, I felt a fluttering deep in my belly and I knew I couldn't wait a moment longer. I didn't want to waste any more time without kissing her. The blood was roaring so loudly in my ears I couldn't think of anything else.

I released her fingers to place both my hands around her waist and draw her closer to me. When the length of her body was pressed tightly to mine, I slid one hand upwards over her back until my fingers were caressing the soft curls at the nape of her neck. The index finger of my other hand was under her chin and gently angling her face up towards mine.

In my anxiety that we might be interrupted again, I surprised even myself at the alacrity with which my lips descended on hers then to kiss her softly, reverently, gratefully.

 _At last._

It felt like molten lava was running through my veins. Her lips felt like heaven and I couldn't stop kissing her. I never wanted to stop kissing her. Ever.

I felt her sigh into my mouth. The sensation caused an involuntary noise to vibrate from the back of my throat in response, somewhere between a hum and a groan of pure delight and I pulled her even more tightly to me.

There was nothing gentle about the kiss then.

Her lips opened beneath mine and I could hardly believe the fervour with which she was kissing me back. Her fingers threaded through my hair and her other hand was gripping my shoulder with her forearm resting against my chest as our lips met again and again.

This was what I had dreamed of constantly during the past two weeks. Since the first day I saw her. The feel of those soft lips touching mine was blissful, and the reality of kissing her so much better than my dreams.

At last I pulled my mouth away from hers and I inclined my head so that our foreheads were still touching. I moved both my hands until they were resting on her shoulders. She was still clutching on to me tightly and we were both gasping for breath.

Her lips were slightly parted and those iridescent eyes had turned a darker shade of blue. I wanted to kiss every one of her eyelashes.

In that moment, I changed my mind about my carefully contrived plan of poetry and polite questions. I decided I was going to tell her everything. I would tell her how much I loved her, ask her to wait for me, tell her I'd come back for her, and ask her to write to me. Best of all, I was going to write home today and tell my family about her.

I wanted to take her away and forget about the war. I wanted to be alone with her as soon as possible to kiss her and tell her everything I needed to say.

After taking a few deep breaths, I managed to gather my scattered thoughts together a little.

"Marguerite, would you like to come somewhere with me? Somewhere quiet where we can talk?" My voice was hoarse.

"Yes, I would like that," she whispered, her eyes never leaving mine.

"Thank you," I smiled. I straightened, took her hand in mine and started walking.

"Where are we going?" she asked, still a little breathless.

"Some of the fellows told me about a place not far from here," I replied.

I didn't tell her what the others did with women at the glade just outside the village, because that wasn't the reason I was taking her there.

I just wanted to have her all to myself.

I tucked her hand into the crook of my elbow, and my hand lingered there with hers, unable to stop touching her soft skin. Her eyes were back on my mouth, and I couldn't wait to kiss her again.

My whole body felt alive with hope, and I was tingling from head to toe in anticipation. The images of my dreams for our future together were flashing through my mind, tumbling into one another.

When we got to the edge of the village, I turned onto a little path that was surprisingly free of the usual debris of war. It only took a few minutes and I sighed in relief when I saw a small clearing in the trees, where a stream was trickling through a delightful little hollow. It was exactly where they had told me it would be.

"I didn't bring anything to sit on," I apologised. "Do you mind sitting on the grass here?"

"Not at all," she smiled, reaching up to take her hat off. "It's so pretty here."

We sat down in the dappled light beneath a charming old beech tree, with our hips side by side but angled so that we were facing each other. I tossed my cap on the grass next to me. My fingers entwined with hers once more as I watched her luscious red lips smiling at me. I leaned back on my other arm to get a better view of her face.

I was intoxicated by being this close to her, delirious because I was alone with her.

"I wrote something since I saw you last. A poem," I blurted out.

"A poem?" she asked curiously. "Is that what you were writing when you came to the café?"

"Yes. No." I was babbling like an idiot in my nervousness. How could I explain that what I'd written was different now that I knew I loved her?

"What I mean is, yes, I was writing poems in the café. Well, I was trying to write poetry in the café. But it's only since I saw you two weeks ago that I wrote _this_ poem," I clarified. "Would you like me to read it to you?"

"Yes, please," she was smiling delightedly.

I pulled the piece of paper from my breast pocket and unfolded it. I was so nervous my hands were shaking.

"It's just a few lines, but I hope you like it…" my voice trailed off.

"I would love to hear something you've written."

She leaned forward, drawing her knees up towards her chest, tucking her skirts in around her legs. She had her elbows on her knees with her chin resting in her hands. Her eyes never left my face.

As I read the poem to her, I looked up once or twice to gauge her reaction. I saw the smile fade slowly from her face, to be replaced with the most rapt expression I'd ever seen as she listened to the words I'd written for her.

When I finished reading and looked into those sea blue eyes, I was hoping desperately that she would understand.

"Oh, Walter, did you really write that? It's so beautiful!" she exclaimed. That rapturous expression still lingered, mixing with her smile. The fluttering had returned to my stomach.

"Do you really like it?"

"Oh, yes! I like it so much," she replied. "I've never heard such a wonderful poem. And you wrote it yourself? You're so clever."

"You might not still be saying that when I read Mr Shakespeare's sonnets to you later," I smiled ruefully.

I carefully folded the paper again, offering it to her.

"It's for you," I said.

"For me?" she whispered, and her eyes were wide. She cradled the paper in her hands like it was the most delicate, precious object she'd ever seen. "Thank you."

Her blue eyes were glistening and her exquisite smile dazzled me again. My breath caught in my throat.

"I brought something else for you," I said hoarsely, and reached into my jacket to retrieve the little box of candy Rilla had made for me. "My sister made it."

I had received a box of treats from Ingleside last week. Mother, Susan and Rilla had all included something for me. I smiled as I thought of the sweet, funny little letter from Rilla that had accompanied the candy.

 _Dear Walter_

 _Susan's been teaching me how to cook and I made some candy for you and Ken yesterday. I know it's not much - we didn't have very much sugar - but I've made enough that I thought you might be able to share it with someone over there if you'd like to._

 _I was the bridesmaid at Miranda Pryor's wedding last week. I wish I could tell you how romantic it was, but it really wasn't. First, I was mortified when Jims started crying, so I had to hold him all through the ceremony. Can you imagine? What bridesmaid ever had to do that? Then Miranda's dog took a fit and started howling and making the strangest noises so nobody could hear what Mr. Meredith was saying. Oh, Walter, it was awful, but I had to stop myself from laughing the entire time. It was perfectly killing!_

 _Jims is growing like a weed - with Morgan's guidance - and he really is so sweet now. I'm sending you kisses from us both._

 _I miss you. Please make sure you stay safe._

 _Love from Rilla_

I couldn't think of anyone I would I rather share the candy with than Marguerite, and I would tell Rilla so in my next letter to her.

I was captivated by Marguerite's face as she unwrapped the small package and saw what it contained. I was mesmerised as those exquisite lips curled up in the most enchanting smile. Her eyes lit up and she giggled in delight.

"Oh! I haven't had sweets for so long! Thank you."

She was positively beaming at me.

"Will you have some, too?" She held the box out to me, but I shook my head.

"No, thank you. They're for you."

Marguerite popped one of the candies into her mouth and I smiled. But it was the delightful little noise she made then, closing her eyes and smiling in ecstasy that made my blood feel as though it was boiling in my veins.

"Delicious! Which of your sisters made it?" she asked me, licking her fingers in pleasure.

"My youngest sister, Rilla," I replied, wanting to kiss the corner of her lips where a few grains of sugar remained.

"I think it's the nicest thing I've tasted in two years," she smiled.

"I'll tell her you liked it," I said.

"You mean you would write to her about me?" She seemed surprised that I would.

I nodded and thought of everything else I would write Rilla about Marguerite.

"Your sister's the same age as me, isn't she? Would you tell me more about her?"

"Rilla's sweet and very loyal. Everybody loves her. She's started a Junior Red Cross at home and she's looking after a war baby," I replied, smiling indulgently. It felt as though I'd smiled more that day than in the many months since I'd left Ingleside. I was getting used to the feeling. "Her beau is a Lieutenant. She hasn't said so, but I think they might be secretly engaged."

"Engaged! How romantic," she sighed again. "Is she very pretty? Does she look like you?"

I thought of Rilla's darling little face turned up to me that night in Rainbow Valley when I'd told her I'd enlisted.

"Yes, she's very pretty," I said. My eyes were fascinated with Marguerite's lips again. "But not nearly as pretty as you."

"I think she's so brave, looking after a baby! I'm sure I could never do such a thing. I'm too…" her voice trailed off as I leaned in towards her.

"Marguerite," my voice was low, "I really don't want to talk about my sister right now."

"Walter…" The sound of my name elicited the same reaction in me that it always did.

I moved my hand up to caress her cheek and, cupping her jaw with my fingers, I gently pulled her face towards me until I could feel her warm, soft lips pressed against mine once more. She tasted like sugar.

I trailed kisses across her cheek to the shell of her ear, then down her soft white throat to gently press my lips where her nape curved to meet her shoulder, inhaling her scent. She smelled like roses. I could hear her breath moving in delicious short puffs next to my ear as she tilted her head to the side to allow me better access to her skin.

"Marguerite… you're so beautiful … I've missed you… you don't know how much I've wanted to..." I was mumbling incoherently as I kissed her.

"Walter," she sighed.

"Marry me," I breathed the words into her soft skin.

I froze, with my lips still pressed in the hollow of her collarbone, one arm wrapped around her waist. What had I just said? Did she hear me?

I hadn't meant to say it. Not like that, not yet. There was considerably more that I had intended to say to her first. But I was so drunk on her that the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

I was about to apologise and recant when I heard her reply.

"Yes, Walter," she exhaled.

I drew back to look into her eyes and asked incredulously, "Pardon?"

"Yes. I'll marry you." Those sea blue eyes were looking at me with such tenderness and overflowing with love.

"What did you say?" Did she really just say yes?

"Yes," she was still gazing into my eyes.

"Yes?" I couldn't believe it.

"Yes. Yes. Yes." She was smiling now.

Yes. It was the most beautiful word I'd ever heard. I laughed out loud.

"Yes!" I cried exultantly, still laughing.

She started kissing along my jaw to my mouth, her fingers running through my hair, and she was murmuring sweet little endearments to me, telling me over and over how much she loved me. Then I was the one sighing, as her lips left a trail of kisses down my neck, pausing at my Adam's apple then back to my jaw and up to my mouth again.

When the curling in the pit of my belly had become too much, I kissed her so hard that she fell back onto the grass. Before I knew it, I was half lying on top of her and kissing those soft lips over and over as we laughed together. Her arms crept around my neck and then she was making those delicious little noises in my mouth again.

I never wanted to stop kissing her. I never wanted to stop touching her.

At length, I was sitting propped up against the beech tree and she was sitting on my lap with her skirt tucked in around her legs. Her face was nestled into the curve of my shoulder and her forehead was pressed against my neck. I had my arms around her and I could feel her soft breath blowing down my shirt onto my chest as I kissed her shining hair.

"I wrote the poem about you, you know," I confessed. "It was always for you."

She lifted her head to look at me then, her blue eyes shimmering.

"It was about me?" I nodded. "Thank you, Walter. I love it."

"No, thank _you_. Without you I may not ever have written anything again. I didn't want to write at all when I came here."

"I'm glad you did write again. But – but, do you think I'm too young to be engaged?" she asked, hesitantly.

"Rilla is almost the same age as you, and she's engaged."

"Do you think Papa will agree to it?"

"We can talk to him together," I promised her.

"I want to tell him. But perhaps we can wait a little longer?"

"Of course. Whatever you want, Marguerite," I said. "But I'm going to write and tell my family straight away."

We sat like that for a long time, and I never got to read her the Shakespeare sonnets that day. I didn't get a chance to tell her all my plans for us. We'd been too busy kissing to talk much after that.

Eventually, I realised I'd have to get back to the camp soon. I stood up and offered her my hand to help her stand.

When she placed her little hand in mine and looked up at me with those loving blue eyes, I thought my heart would explode with joy.

And still I hoped.

* * *

 _A/N: For those who might be paying close attention, I know my timeline might be a bit off with just when Rilla went to that wedding, but I hope you will allow me a little poetic licence. :)_


	7. The Promise

**My sincere thanks go to LMM as always.**

 **Thanks for your patience, I am so grateful to** **everyone** **who has been reading and reviewing this story.** **I can only beg your forgiveness for the delay with this update.**

* * *

When Marguerite placed her little hand in mine, with her lips swollen from my kisses, I was brimming with love and the hopeful promise of our future together. I was still drunk on the feel of her skin, my heart was beating wildly in my chest and my once-unfamiliar laughter had been summoned so frequently that day that the smile no longer felt strange on my face.

That self-same smile was firmly in place as, slowly and carefully, I drew Marguerite to her feet, with my gaze never leaving her. I was drowning in the sparkling blue depths of her eyes as I placed my hands on her waist and pulled her towards me until our bodies were pressed against each other. Even an inch was too far away from her.

I recalled waiting for her impatiently by the fountain that morning, and wondered if it had truly only been that same day. The hours we had shared together since then had exceeded my expectations to such an extent that I was beyond even my wildest dreams now.

Marguerite loved me. More than that, she had agreed to marry me. I could scarcely believe it. I was burning with my excitement to announce to the whole world that she was going to be my wife. I would write Mother and Dad to tell them the news tonight. I knew Rilla would be so thrilled. I must remember to write to her about how much Marguerite enjoyed the candy.

"I'm afraid I have to get back to camp. I think I'm late," I said regretfully.

"I don't want you to leave," she replied, reaching up to gently smooth back the hair that had fallen forward over my forehead.

The tender look in her eyes accompanying that simple gesture made my body feel like it was on fire, and my arms slipped around her waist as I lowered my head to crush her soft lips against my own. I heard her sigh, and I marvelled at how quickly that had become my favourite sound.

"I don't want to leave you, either," I murmured against her mouth. "But I promise I will come back to you."

"How can you know that?" she asked, drawing away a little so she could see my face.

One of her hands was caressing my jaw while her other hand was curved around the back of my neck, and I could see that her lips were trembling slightly as she waited for me to answer.

I gazed into her deep eyes, my hand cupping her jaw and my thumb gently caressing her soft cheek. My throat tightened at the thought of leaving her.

"I know because I love you," I said hoarsely.

"I love you, too, Walter," her voice was soft, her eyes telling me more than her words ever could.

My heart thudded against my ribs. Surely I was the luckiest fellow on earth that she could be looking at me like that.

I caught her hand in mine and raised it to my mouth, pressing a kiss reverentially on each soft little dimple in turn, our eyes still locked together. My lips caressed every inch of the back of her hand and then gently brushed along each of her fingers. Slowly, I turned her hand over to kiss the inside of her wrist, and my lips moved up to lavish equal attention to her palm before releasing it.

I reached out to grasp her other hand and bestow the same loving care to the soft skin I found there, my eyes never once leaving hers. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, her breath coming in soft little pants, her lips slightly parted and her eyelashes fluttering as she watched me. A trembling had settled deep in my belly. How was I going to walk away from her?

I slid my arms around her and kissed her tantalising lips with a little more urgency this time.

"Marguerite… Marguerite, I love you," I muttered in between heated kisses. "I adore you. I never want to leave you."

My lips kissed a thrilling trail from the corner of her mouth along her jaw to her delicate earlobe and then down to her nape, inhaling the scent of roses. I lingered at the base of her soft white throat, unable to drag my lips away from that enchanting little hollow.

"Walter. Oh, please, Walter," she breathed.

Marguerite's hands were clasped around the back of my neck now, pressing me closer, with her head thrown back so that her throat was better exposed to my lips, and I was murmuring words into her skin. My fingers were threaded through the soft curls at the back of her head and I desperately wanted to touch all of her.

Marguerite slid her hands over my back and shoulders, and then I felt her adorable little hands on the buttons of my shirt pulling me down with her. Slowly we sank to the ground with my lips still pressed to her throat. Her fingers skimmed across my chest and she gasped when one of her hands slipped inside my shirt. The sound of her sharp intake of breath along with the feel of her soft fingers caressing my skin elicited a groan from deep within my throat and I grew more frantic.

"Darling, darling Marguerite…"

Suddenly, she was underneath me, and I felt her shiver as my lips touched the soft skin beneath her ear. Each heavenly caress on her velvety skin wasn't enough.

"Walter… _chéri_ ," she whispered in my ear.

The sound of that endearment sent another tremor of desire through my body, and I only wanted to touch more and more of her. She was sighing against my lips as I trailed the back of my fingers down the length of her arms, and then my fingertips were lightly tracing a path along the soft cotton of her blouse covering her ribcage, coming to rest at last on the enticing buttons at her throat. Before I knew what I was doing, my trembling fingers were frenziedly unfastening her blouse. Her fingers were threaded through my hair, her back arching so that her body was closer to mine, and my hips were pressing against hers, with her skirt fanned out between us.

My fingers had begun loosening the second button of her blouse, and my face was buried in her hair with my breath gusting against the side of her neck, when the import of what we were doing finally struck me.

I couldn't dishonour her this way, no matter how much I wanted her. If I didn't stop now, I knew I wouldn't have the strength to stop myself in another minute, or if she allowed one more sigh to slip from her delicious rosy lips. My hands stilled in their progress with her buttons.

"Marguerite, we can't," I muttered against her throat, moving my hands so that they were supporting my weight on either side of her head, and lifting my upper body away from her. I clutched smooth blades of grass between my fingers. Her skin was much softer. My face was only inches from hers, and we were both breathing heavily as I gazed intently into her eyes, willing her to understand.

Marguerite had never looked more tempting. Her face was flushed and her eyes were half closed as she stared at me. Her hair had come loose, with her curls tumbling across the grass behind her head. Her breasts were rising and falling rapidly with each gasping breath she took, the buttons that I'd hastily undone revealing more of the expanse of soft white skin at her throat that I so desperately wanted to kiss.

"Yes, we can. Please," she breathed, attempting to draw one of my hands back to touch her.

"No. We can't." My body was still hovering over her, and I was trying to avoid looking at her lips in my determination not to kiss her again.

"Touch me, Walter." Her hands were anxiously trying to pull my body back down to her.

"Please, Marguerite," I groaned, rolling away until I was lying on my back next to her, my face still turned towards her and one hand resting on my chest as I struggled to catch my breath. "Please don't make this more difficult than it already is."

She turned her head to look at me with such want in her eyes that I could barely stop myself from kissing her. I caught her sweet little hand in mine.

"But I thought… Don't you – don't you want to?" Her eyes looked hurt now and she tried to withdraw her hand. But I clasped it more tightly to my chest so she could feel the hammering of my heart.

"Of _course_ I want to, darling girl," I told her, as I pulled her hand up to my lips. "More than anything, believe me. But not like this. Not now. I'll be going to the front soon, and we're not married yet. I'd never forgive myself…I couldn't live with myself not knowing if… if you were…" My voice trailed off. "I want to know you'll be all right, Marguerite," I finished a little awkwardly.

"But I must just watch you go and not know that you'll be all right? What if … what if you don't come back?" She closed her eyes and turned her face away from me. "Just like my brothers didn't come back," she whispered.

I pushed myself up to lean on my elbow and reaching out I gently placed my finger under her chin to tilt her face back towards me. Her dark lashes fluttered open and I saw a tear trickle down her cheek.

"I'll come back for you. I promise," I said, looking intently into her eyes.

"But, you don't…" she faltered.

"I will come back for you," I repeated steadily. "You are the reason I want to come back. It's our future together that gives me hope that this war won't kill me after all. Will you promise to wait for me? Please?"

"You know I'll wait for you," she whispered. "But, Walter, I don't want to wait. Could we be married before you go…away?" She hesitated slightly on the last word.

I sat up, dumbstruck for a moment as I considered her question. Could we really be married so soon? It was a tantalising thought. Slowly, Marguerite sat up, too, and her beautiful eyes were huge, silently pleading as she watched me.

"I would marry you today, if I could," I said. "But what about your father? I won't have time to ask him today - I'm already going to be late getting back."

"I could talk to Papa by myself."

"No, it's my responsibility to ask him for your hand," I protested, shaking my head. "I want to do this right."

"You already said that you don't have enough time, so I must do it. Please, will you let me?" Her gaze was so tender, with her soft fingers caressing my jaw so that I felt myself wavering. Did she know how irresistible she was to me?

"I don't like the idea that you would ask him without me." _When this war is over, you will never have to do anything alone ever again._ "I should be the one to ask for his permission."

"I don't mind. I'm sure he'll agree when he sees how happy I am. Please, Walter?" Marguerite's smile was distracting, her lashes fluttering appealingly.

"I might have one more day of leave..." _And we could be married. You would be my wife_.

"Please, _mon ange_?" Her blue eyes were pleading with me again, her hand still caressing my face. "I don't want to wait to be your wife."

"You know I want to, but…" _I want you. I adore you._

"Please let me talk to Papa?"

The look in her eyes was too much. I was still unhappy that I wouldn't be the one to ask her father for Marguerite's hand, but how could I refuse her anything?

"Well," I said slowly, "I suppose there's nothing else for it if we're to be married before I go. But I will speak with your father the very first moment I can. I don't want him to think me a complete cad."

"So we can be married before you go?"

"Yes, I think so. If your father agrees," I nodded, laughing as she squealed in delight and threw her arms around my neck, covering my face in kisses.

"He will agree," she said confidently.

"And you will be my wife," I could barely comprehend the words as they left my mouth.

" _Oui_ ," she breathed.

I drew her into my arms and I wondered how it would be possible to wait another moment to make her mine. So I kissed her sweet lips to seal the promises we'd made to each other.

"I truly must get back now," I opened my eyes and smiled, still kissing her. I was already so late I was going to catch hell from the Sergeant.

I stood up again, extending my hand to help her.

She was hastily tying her hair back as I bent down to retrieve her hat. I noticed the rosebud I'd given her lying on the grass next to it, so I gathered it up, too, gently tucking it into her hair as I gazed adoringly into her smiling eyes. Then I placed my cap on my head and slung my jacket over my shoulder as I swept my arm around her waist and turned to walk her home.

"We'll be married before I go," I murmured once more, as if to confirm the idea to myself.

"Do you promise, Walter?" I knew she was asking about more than the wedding.

"You have my word," I said as I turned my head to smile down into her sparkling blue eyes. I was pledging her everything I had.

We walked out of the little clearing and onto the path that would take us back to the village. Marguerite's beautiful face was turned up to me as we walked, her eyes brimming with love. I held her to me as tightly as I could, grinning and occasionally leaning down to kiss her.

At last, we were facing each other on the street outside the café. I was bursting with love for her.

"I can't wait for you to be my wife. I love you, darling Marguerite," I whispered in her ear before I leaned in to kiss her, trying to convey everything I felt for her.

"I love you," she breathed, as we finally drew apart.

"I must go," I said, reluctantly. "And you have to talk to your father. I'll send you a note as soon as I know about my leave."

I let her go and my arms felt bereft as I jogged across the street. When I reached the corner, I turned back to look at her once more.

" _Au revoir_ , Walter!" she called. "Remember, you promised." Smiling, she blew me a kiss.

"I promise," I smiled, blowing a kiss back to her.

She lifted the folded paper with my poem on it from her pocket and placed it against her lips before slowly lowering her hands to clutch it against her heart. Silently her lips mouthed, "I love you."

I couldn't remember ever being happier than I was in that moment. I hoped to have leave in another week or two, and then Marguerite would be my wife. _My wife!_

I was just turning away, still smiling broadly, when I heard a sharp noise to my left and abruptly, it was as if everything around me was moving in slow motion.

I watched, puzzled, as Marguerite's body slowly crumpled to the ground without warning. She fell so gracefully, landing on her side with a sickening thud.

The smile died on my face at the same time that I felt a crack opening in my chest.


	8. Paying the Piper

**Thanks for your patience. To everyone who has read and reviewed so far, and especially those of you who are still reading along despite the unforgivably long delays between chapters, I can't tell you how much it means to me.**

 **I must give a particular shout out to katherine-with-a-k for her unfailing support in getting me this far and LMM for everything else.**

* * *

 _No._

I was confused, frozen in shock as I watched Marguerite fall to the ground. My mind couldn't make sense of what was happening. Had she tripped? I waited for her to move.

 _No_. _No. No._ The word ran over and over in my mind.

Silently, I begged her to move. _Please, Marguerite_. _Please move._

More urgently as I started to panic. _Please._ _You must_ _get up, Marguerite._ Still, I hoped.

I couldn't hear anything but the sound of the blood rushing in my ears and my ragged breathing as I ran to her, each step filling me with more dread. _No!_

"No," I whispered the word.

 _No. Not her. You can't have her._

I realised I was talking to the Piper, and then I was bargaining with him, pleading with him.

 _Please. Please don't take her._ _Take me instead. It's me you really want._

But I already knew it was too late. I had always known I wasn't enough for him. Now I realised this was what he had planned for me from the beginning. This was what he had been waiting so patiently for, what I had to wait for.

In my besotted state, I had forgotten the Piper entirely. I had been so foolish to make other plans without remembering his ever-present shadow fell across everything in my world.

I was running in slow motion towards her, the dread rising in my throat and my blood turning cold. It felt as though I was wading through water. As I drew closer, I could see the sinister oozing at her temple. The dark blood was already pooling in the dirt around her. I was stunned, unable to comprehend what I was seeing.

"No! Marguerite!" I finally heard myself scream hoarsely, at the same time as I knelt beside her. It sounded like someone else's voice.

 _No. No. Please don't leave me here, Marguerite. Don't leave me. I love you._

Suddenly, the world started speeding up and going too fast.

I felt more than saw that a crowd was gathering to see what had happened. Distantly I heard their voices, but I only saw Marguerite's broken little body lying on the ground in front of me.

I gently gathered her to me, trying to help her up, holding her in my arms, gently brushing the soft, dark curls away from her face with my hands, my head bent over her as I wept, pleading with her.

"No, no, no, Marguerite, please, no. No. Please don't leave me. Please come back. Please." I whispered the words to her brokenly, over and over, my voice barely a croak in my throat as I rocked her gently back and forth. _Je t'aime_.

My golden dreams of our life together were all rushing before my eyes, in a confusion of images. In an instant, I saw everything that would never be.

I relived my once-joyful dream of her introductions to my family at Ingleside. I saw myself introducing her father to my parents, too. How delighted they would be to meet her father and welcome him into our family.

Then I saw our wedding, with Jem as my best man and Rilla, Nan and Di as her bridesmaids. Mother would be crying happy tears and Dad would have his arm around her comfortingly, blinking back tears of his own. Shirley would be standing next to Susan, who would have her handkerchief pressed to her face. Marguerite's father would be standing next to her, proudly placing her hand into mine and smiling.

I saw our children playing on the front lawn at Ingleside with the other grandchildren as Mother and Dad looked on, smiling at them all dotingly.

I watched every image of our happy life together flash before my eyes as I held her to me and whispered to her.

"Marguerite, please," I was still begging her. "Don't go. Come back to me. Please. I love you."

But I knew it was too late. The jagged fissure cleaving my chest was opening wider and I felt the agonising twist of the Piper's knife in my belly, even as I begged her to stay with me.

I could still hear her sweet sighs and her delectable voice telling me she loved me only minutes before. I could still feel her warm lips brushing against my skin and her little hands pulling me closer.

I thought of the promises we'd made to each other, and realised how utterly foolish I'd been to think any of that was possible. I should have known from the moment I first saw her and felt that jolt to my heart, that the Piper would take her from me. That she was his, not mine.

I bent and kissed those beautiful, rosebud lips once more, my tears spilling over, mingling with the blood on her face as I caressed her cheek and murmured to her, telling her how much I loved her again and again. Remembering how she had called me her angel, never realising that the Piper's inescapable plan meant I was the angel of death for her.

Distantly, I heard a voice behind me saying that a gun had been fired accidentally, the bullet ricocheting off the wall of the building behind her. But I knew it was the Piper. I knew he had killed her just as surely as if he had pulled the trigger himself.

As I held her lifeless body in my arms, I felt the relief wash over me, slicing through my grief, for I understood that now the Piper's time for me had come at long last. I'd been foolish to think I could escape his command.

He had waited for me patiently, and I was glad because I knew that the torture would end soon. Taking Marguerite from me was his final cruel blow, and I was thankful that I wouldn't have to endure this agony for much longer. If Marguerite didn't exist here, then there was no point to anything in this brutal world.

As I rocked her back and forth in my arms, a scrap of paper lying in the dirt next to her hand caught my eye. I realised that it was the poem I'd written for her and my fingers curled around it as I let the waves of desolation break over me and finally, truly surrendered myself to the Piper's will.

 _Take me. Just take me now,_ I begged him silently. _Please, take me._

Then I heard a tortured cry from behind me.

"Marguerite!"

I turned and saw her father running out of the café towards the crowd that had gathered.

I watched him pushing people out of his path in his frenzy to get to her. I saw the pain written all over his face when he knelt beside her and took her from my arms so gently. I heard him crooning soothingly to her in French and I felt helpless in the onslaught of his grief.

His loss was so much worse than mine.

My family were all alive and safe, far away from this hideous place. Even Jem would be safe because I knew he was strong enough and brave enough to survive this. I knew the Piper would allow him to live and return to Faith. But this man's family were all gone now, all dead because of this hateful war, because of the Piper. Because I loved his daughter and the Piper would not allow me to have her. How would Marguerite's father survive losing her on top of everything else he'd already suffered?

I couldn't bring myself to think about his loss and my part in it.

I couldn't bear to see the anguish on his face, the look of grief in his eyes. I couldn't bear to hear his voice brokenly crying out for his beloved daughter. I couldn't bear to think of the question Marguerite had been going to ask him today. The question I had wanted to ask him myself.

So I stood up and fled. Like the coward I am, I ran full tilt from the village all the way back to camp.

By the time I arrived, the crack in my chest had grown into a gaping cavity of agony. I was gulping in great lungfuls of air, and holding my chest in a futile effort to keep the pieces together. I noticed the camp was alive with bustling movement.

"Over here, Blythe!" one of my chums shouted, waving me towards him. "I've been looking for you everywhere."

I wasn't at all surprised by his next words. "We're being moved out to the Somme in two days."

The Piper was moving swiftly now, but I had ceased to care. In fact, I prayed for him to go faster.

I fell into step next to my chum, trying to ignore the spikes of agony leaking from my chest as I forced myself to listen to his words. I took the cigarette he offered me, cupping my hand around it as I struck a match alight and touched it to the end, taking long drags and nodding mutely while I was given my instructions on what we had to do to prepare to leave.

Over the next two days, as we prepared to leave, I was silently begging the Piper to take me quickly. I no longer permitted myself to think about Marguerite, as I buried my memories and dreams of her away in a deep recess of my soul, where I hoped they would stay until it was time for me to meet the Piper's call.

I wrote letters home to Ingleside to tell them the news that we were moving out.

 _Dearest Rilla-my-Rilla_

 _We're being posted to the Somme in a few days, but I wanted to thank you for the candy you sent before I leave, and I don't know if I'll get a chance to write much once we're there; they say it's going to be quite a battle. You must tell Susan she's an excellent teacher, because I did share the candy, just as you suggested, and we enjoyed it very much..._

 _Dear Mother_

 _There are precious few moments for poetry here, but I've managed to write a little bit lately. I'm enclosing a poem I wrote called 'The Piper' and I've sent Rilla a clipping of it from_ The Spectator _in London._

 _In recent weeks I've discovered there is still some beauty to be found in the world, even in the midst of all this. I have been told France was lovely before the war, full of flowers and meadows, just as I imagined it to be. Remember, when I fancied coming here to study? I found a beautiful little glade near here the other day which I know you would have loved…_

 _Dear Dad_

 _I know Mother and Rilla will show you the copies I sent them of a poem I wrote which_ The Spectator _thought was quite good. Tell me what you think, won't you? When I was writing it, I spent a lot of time thinking about you and the talks we had together before I left Ingleside._

 _I want to thank you for how much you've helped me, even over here. We're moving out to a place called Courcelette tomorrow, and some of the fellows here are pretty stirred up about it. I can hear your words coming out of my mouth as I talk to them, and I've used plenty of your doctor's wisdom to reassure some of the younger fellows._

 _I'm still glad I came here, and I am certain it was the right thing for me to do. Rilla, Mother and Susan send me plenty of sweets and I strive to serve others as best I can, just as you've always shown me…_

The next day, in the darkness of pre-dawn, I was marching towards the assembly trenches.

Mercifully, I couldn't hear the Piper's whispers in my ear after that.

Even though I felt sure that the Piper must come for me soon, I was lost. In my desperation to circumvent any thoughts of Marguerite, I attempted to distract myself by comforting and helping my chums as we waded through the mud and filth of the trenches. It was the one thing left for me to do.

My overwhelming despair increased my desire to hasten the completion of the Piper's torment. So, I sought to help him, and grew increasingly reckless in my efforts to put a stop to the excruciating numbness within my chest that was barely restraining the pain.

Again and again, I ran out into the line of fire to drag the wounded back to safety, trying to provoke the Piper, all the while begging him to take me; amazed when I was never hit, bewildered when the others spoke of my courage. In one particularly brutal foray, I felt sure he couldn't miss me, yet still he did. Not long after that, I was awarded the medal, mystified that anyone would call this bravery.

Gradually, through the dull fog of my stupefaction, I realised that the Piper wasn't going to grant me the mercy of taking me quite as quickly as I'd hoped, and he would not be swayed by my efforts to assist him. So, I resigned myself to the Piper's bidding, succumbing to whatever he wanted. Realising I felt dead already as I watched the struggle of those around me, I simply waited for the Piper to come for me.


	9. Epilogue

We go 'over the top' at dawn, and I am sure that this time the Piper will not fail me. This time I know he is ready to take me.

I know because I saw him last night. For the first time since I came to this place I didn't merely hear the sound of his persistent refrain taunting me, I _saw_ the Piper marching across No Man's Land. This time, I know that he's come for me at long last. Since then, I've heard his melody humming faintly in my ears, beckoning me, the music tantalising me with its promise of sweet relief.

My certainty that it will soon be over has consumed my despair, leaving me only with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for the happy life I enjoyed with my family at Ingleside. After the horrors I've witnessed in this place, how could I be anything but grateful for such a wonderful life?

I think of how fortunate I am to have been gifted with such a family. I feel awash in my love for them tonight, so I want to remember them, honour them and hold them all as close to my heart as I can. Tonight, I am taking out the treasured memories I have of them and holding them up to the light, like prisms of love. This ugly place has shown me that there can be only appreciation for the opportunity to experience such love and to know such an existence, however briefly.

I wrote my letters of farewell to my family last night, determined to express my gratitude, and eager for them to know how much I love them. But now, greedily, selfishly, I crave to spend the remainder of my time being with them, by remembering them for just a little longer, and devote what little time I have now in tribute to them.

When I think of my comfortable life at Ingleside now, I laugh to myself at how I used to complain that I couldn't sleep because of Jem's snoring, or being woken up by Susan's pantry door squeaking as Dad stole a midnight snack when he got home late.

Now, I am kept awake by the constant sounds of war all around me, the fetid stench of the mud at the back of my throat. The whistling explosions of artillery bombardment overhead, the deafening roar of the tanks, the agonised screams of the wounded and dying, along with the scuttling of the rats, these are the sounds that keep me awake now, as I perpetually scratch at the lice which seem to multiply within my uniform every day.

These are experiences that no man should ever know, events that no man should ever have to witness or hear. I am content to have played my part in ensuring that my beloved family will never have to know them. But I'm equally glad that it's nearly over. I am bone tired now and it is my exhaustion that has finally conquered me.

I think of Mother's words in her last letter to me, and I can feel my heart overflowing with love for her. How grateful I am for everything she's done for me.

 _We all loved 'The Piper', so much. It's wonderful, darling, and I feel sure it's your best work yet. We are all so proud of you, especially your father. It makes me smile to see him every time someone in the Glen mentions your poem to him. He is so puffed up with pride, although he tries to hide it. You know how he hates to crow, but he is so thrilled about it. And when anyone remarks about your medal! Well…_

The letter I received from Dad was more pragmatic, but no less full of love and comfort. I could see his eyes twinkling as he wrote it.

 _The poem was very good Walter, but I can't really see where anything I said has influenced it. I think it's all your own unique thoughts, as usual. Your mother is beside herself with delight. I must confess to teasing Susan mercilessly about its success. Remember how she used to be so disapproving of your poetry when you were younger? I'm also glad to hear my fatherly lectures to you over the years have stayed with you, and that you are putting them to good use with your chums over there! You know me, always happy to help…_

The sweet, newsy letters I'd received from Nan and Di were full of their love and reminders of home.

 _Di and I are completely thrilled about your beautiful poem. We showed it to the other girls at the Red Cross and they all agreed it's perfectly magnificent. It's inspired us all to…_

 _We're so proud, Walter. I know you'll be embarrassed, but Nan and I have given copies of 'The Piper' to the girls here at the Red Cross. All the girls cried and said it was the loveliest poem, especially when we told them about your D. C. medal. We made sure all your Redmond professors got copies, too…_

I had even received a rare letter from Jem last week. He's here at the Somme somewhere, too, but his letter was just like a trip home to Ingleside.

 _Well done, Walt. I heard you won the D.C. Medal, although Jerry says you deserved the V.C. for what you did. I'm not sure that running out into No Man's Land isn't plain foolhardy, to be perfectly honest. I counted 63 cooties on my chest yesterday, a new record…_

Shirley's letter was matter of fact:

 _I've been studying up on every aviation pamphlet I can find for a while now, Walter, and I'm going to join the Air Force just as soon as I'm old enough. I must do my bit, just like you and Jem are already. Mother tries to pretend that she doesn't see it, but I know she and Susan are both secretly watching me. Susan is being an absolute brick about it…_

And darling Rilla. She is the one I miss the most, even though Di and I have always been so close. Perhaps it is because Rilla reminds me of Marguerite so much. Rilla is so brave and beautiful and sweet.

 _Oh, Walter, thank you for sending me the newspaper clipping. We all simply adore your new poem and I'm so glad you have a chance to write over there. Miss Oliver says it's the finest poem she has ever read. Even Ethel Reese conceded that she quite likes it! I hope you don't mind, I sent a copy of it to Kenneth Ford…_

I want to hold all the precious memories I have of them with me for as long as I can.

"I love you and I won't forget you," I whisper to my family. "Thank you."

Now I am waiting patiently for the commanding officer to shout our orders, and it is not for myself, but for them that I pray: my cherished family, my beloved Island … and my beautiful Marguerite.

I save my thoughts of Marguerite for last. So I can savour my memories of her, enjoy my thoughts of her love until it is time for me to go.

Surprisingly, it doesn't hurt anymore to think of her. I only feel the same peace she always brought me whenever I was in her presence.

In the weeks since her death, I have grown practiced at pushing down any thoughts of her before they encroached too far into my consciousness. So many times a wraith-like image of her beautiful face would appear unbidden, floating like smoke before my eyes, causing me to catch my breath. My hand would involuntarily reach out to try and touch her before I remembered. Each time her face appeared before me, I would close my eyes, shaking my head to clear my vision and I would force myself to focus instead on the inexorable mud and slime and filth all around me, grateful that she would not see me this way.

Whenever I do sleep for a few minutes, it is my memories of Marguerite haunting my dreams. The soft images of her beautiful face and warm kisses giving way to my memories of that final devastating moment when I held her in my arms and realised the Piper had taken her from me. In my dreams, I am always running to her in slow motion, unable to reach her, my soundless screams unable to be heard. I am always woken from those dreams with a jolt by the excruciating pain swelling from the ever-present crack in my chest.

But last night, the dream was different.

"Please come, Walter, _mon chéri_ ," I had heard Marguerite's sweet voice whispering for me in the dream, like a siren's song, her enticing lips smiling at me, her eyes beckoning to me. "I'm waiting. I love you."

"Marguerite…" I had tried to touch her, but she remained elusive.

I had felt her soft breath at my ear, sighing that she was waiting for me, urging me to join her. "Walter, _mon ange_ …"

I reached out for her in the dream, but she was gone.

Now it is blissful to remember every moment of that summer's day when she told me she loved me. I remember every kiss, every soft caress of her hands, each delectable sigh; every detail of her that I had hidden away so carefully until now. It was the happiest day of my life, and when I think of that day in the glade now, my memories are no longer marred by thoughts of how it ended. I think only of the joy I had felt and my love for her. The moment she agreed to marry me and I saw nothing but love and tenderness in her eyes, I had thought it impossible to feel so much joy and love at once and feared there wasn't enough room in my body to hold it all.

I gently unfold the scrap of paper with the poem I'd scribbled out for her that day, smoothing out the edges carefully on my thigh. The paper is crumpled now, even though I keep it so meticulously folded in my pocket, close to my heart always. I read again the words I wrote for her, running my fingertips gently, lovingly, over the verses as if they were caressing her; as if this action could somehow cast a spell and bring her back to me.

I lift the scrap of paper and touch it tenderly to my lips, remembering how her lips had touched it, too, just before the Piper took her from me. Carefully, I fold her poem again and gently tuck it back into my breast pocket.

I know I will find her when I go over the top. I know she will be there. For I know she is waiting for me with the Piper.

Now I am ready.

I am finally, completely content to go with the Piper, because I know that I am going to _her_.

I feel strangely elated by this knowledge.

I feel the peace she always brings wash over me. Peace from this relentless, ghastly, hideous place and the Piper's gruesome song.

Finally, I can go, for he is letting me go.

" _Company! Atten-shun_!"

As I prepare to climb over the lip of the trench and run, I put my rifle down, because I know I won't use it. Then, with my eyes closed, I remember Marguerite's beloved face one last time.

"Marguerite," I murmur her name once more, seeing her beautiful face smiling at me. "I love you."

I can hear the Piper shouting triumphantly now, for he has always known that I am his.

* * *

 ** _A/N: My thanks go to every single one of you who has read, reviewed, favourited or followed my sad little story._**

 ** _Most especial thanks go to Lasting Violet, who has been with me from the very beginning, Kim Blythe for such encouraging and uplifting reviews, Alinyaalethia for her unflagging support and generosity, and katherine-with-a-k, without whom I would likely never have started this story, much less finished it!_**

 ** _I thank you all from the bottom of my heart, much love from FKAJ._**


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